Sherlock's Bored, Again!
by The Science of DeductionSH
Summary: "O dear, has he been like that all day?" The landlady asked, eyeing the meditating figure on the sofa."I'm afraid so, Mrs. Hudson. He hasn't stirred from that spot ever since he got a text from Lestrade, vaguely outlining his worst fear. Which of course for Sherlock is like displaying it in bold." This is an ongoing series of humorous One-Shots. Not all are on a random timeline.
1. Chapter 1: Cocoon

**A/N: I was bored one day, when these little idea's popped into my head. I don't own Sherlock, any of the characters by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, or BBC, etc. Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat are the real creators of the show. All this work is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit or gain. *Update* I'm currently editing the chapters to past-tense. Enjoy!**

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Chapter 1: Cocoon

-SH-

John was working a shift at the hospital, when he heard his phone blip. He picked up his phone, and read the text: Help me. SH

I'm at the hospital, make tea yourself. JW

Please help me? SH

You better not be joking. JW

John left the hospital, and caught a cab to 221B. Walking up to the flat, John began to hear the sounds of muffled groaning coming from behind the door. "Sherlock?" He called.

"In here," the detective answered. John walked around the corner to the bedroom, and he couldn't believe it. A messy haired detective was dangling five feet above the floor, tangled in a hammock.

"When did you install this?" John asked, trying to contain the laughter in his voice.

"This afternoon," Sherlock replied. "Now untangle me."

"The last time I checked, it takes several weeks for a butterfly to hatch," John replied, snickering.

"Well, I don't have several weeks, now would you kindly untangle me."

John rolled his eyes and started walking over to untangle the detective. "There's like twenty knots, how did you get yourself into this position, Sherlock?"

"A traveling salesman from Hawaii came by the flat this afternoon-"

"And he sold you the hammock," John finished.

"Yes. So after setting it up, I decided to try it out."

"You took a nap?"

"Um...Not exactly."

"Oh no... you didn't.." He did. Sherlock was never one for taking naps, even in strange hammocks. There was only one reason Sherlock had wanted the hammock.

"Yes. I must have flung my arms off to the side a little harder than usual when I was organizing my mind palace, because the next thing I know, I'm not facing towards the ceiling anymore. Instead, I'm dangling from the ceiling with my foot tangled in the ropes."

John's face was red from trying to conceal his laughter.

"Of course.. you were organizing," The army doctor said, with laughter in his voice.

"It's not funny!" Sherlock scowled, his hair standing on end.

"No, you're right it's no- " John eventually cracks, and roars of laughter break through his words.

Sherlock glanced down at his body that was almost merging with the fabric of the hammock, as well as his foot that was completely immobilized with the knotted ropes. He soon joined John in fits of laughter.

When the army doctor managed to get his breath back, he went back to work untangling the knots that still held Sherlock's foot captive.

...

When he finished, John helped the detective stand up. "Well, I think we've learned an important lesson here today," John said, eyeing Sherlock.

"Yes, don't ever organize your mind palace while in a hammock."


	2. Chapter 2: The Experiment

Chapter 2: The Experiment

-SH-

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson, have you seen Sherlock?" John inquired.

"He should be right upstairs dear," Mrs. Hudson replied. "I wonder what he's up to? I haven't seen him all day."

"I think i'm going to do some investigating of my own." John walked down the hall to Sherlock's room.

"Sherlock, what in heavens name are you doing?"

"Oh, hello, John, I'm testing what effects certain types of algae have on trees. I spliced a type of gene into the DNA of the algae, so the tree will grow much faster because it's being fed by the new chemical structure of the algae."

"Sherlock, how did you get a tree in here?" John asked, furrowing his brow.

"Well, that part was a bit tricky," Sherlock replied.

"Ok... we really need to get you a case..." The army doctor fished his beeping phone out of his pocket. "Finally, Sherlock we have a case!"

"If it's not an 8, I'm not interested," Sherlock snorted and went back to looking through his microscope at the translucent gew on a slide. That was the third text the'd received within the span of the last five minutes, and none of the cases were even above a 6.

"It's a 9!"

Sherlock jumped out of his seat. Doing placid experiments all day did hardly anything for his mental state, he needed a challenge. The two of them quickly got dressed, and headed over to Scotland yard.

3 hours later...

"John, I told you he was lying. Look at the way he held his phone between both his hands, close to his body with his arms bent inward. He didn't once make eye contact."

"That's because he was texting," John stated.

"No... I know what he was doing," Sherlock said sarcastically. I do it all the time, so much quicker than sending a letter."

"No... you don't text like a normal person. Your idea of texting, is hanging upside-down, behind your back, and your mind palace messaging system."

"John, I'm telling you, once I iron out the loose ends it will work better that a phone."

The army doctor rolls his eyes. "Right... whatever, i'm going to make us some tea."

Sherlock started walking to his room, when he heard John do a quick inhale and exhale within a few seconds. He smirked.

"Sherlock, why are there pinky's in the soufflé?"

"They must have fallen over," Sherlock replied, nonchalantly.

"Yes, it's almost like they weren't meant to be in a refrigerator," John said sarcastically, putting a plastic bag over his hand and cringed each time he picked up a pinky to throw into the trash.

Sherlock giggled slightly at John's reaction, and walked into his room...

...

"John, come quick!"

The army doctor raced over to Sherlock's room. "What is that?"

"It's algae, only 100 times bigger. Somehow that extra chromosome acted as a catalyst, making only the algae grow instead of the tree, fascinating!"

"Sherlock, the tree is dead," John said, eyeing the leafless, dead branches.

"I know, it's feeding off the tree, incredible isn't it?"

"Yes I get it, It's all very wonderful, but how do we stop it?" John asked, eyeing Sherlock with his arms crossed."

 _"What? who says we have to stop it?"_

"The laws of nature do, Sherlock. It's not natural, and its harmful to the environment."

"Fine, i'll reverse the process," the detective said, sulking as he walked over to his microscope. He never did like ending experiments. For him, it was the worst part of experimenting, to kill a creation that took so much time and effort to make.

1 hour later...

Sherlock is in the sitting room staring up at the ceiling, pestering John in-between sips of tea. "I'm bored!"

"I know, Sherlock."

* * *

A/N: **I hope you enjoyed this chapter:) Feel free to review;)**


	3. Chapter 3: Sandcastles

A/N: **Hello, someone recently posted a review, asking me a question on my One- Shot.** **So whoever you are, here is the answer: Yes, it is possible to splice a type of gene into the DNA of the algae so it grows at a faster rate. All my research said that it was possible that the changed chemical structure of the specimen would affect the tree.**

 **Anyway, so after thinking, and thinking, and more thinking, I came up with this. Enjoy!**

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Chapter 3: Sandcastles

-SH-

"All right, Sherlock, this is the third appendage I've found in my tea this week. We need to get you out of the flat. I'm calling Mycroft."

Sherlock looked up from his own cup of tea, incredulously."Why?"

"Because he's helped us in the past to decide what to do to alleviate your boredom," John replied.

"Oh yes, I loved the trip to button town. I still have that heart-shaped thimble imprint."

"Look, how was I supposed to know the rope hanging from the ceiling was holding up the whole platform?" John sputtered.

"Never mind, I'm just glad you didn't knock over the sewing needle table."

"Well at least you would have been protected," John replied with a snort. The two of them look over at each-other before cracking up in laughter...

John dials Mycroft:

"John, I'm at a meeting with the Prime Minister, this better be important."

"Sherlock's bored, again."

"Entschuldigen Sie mich für einen Augenblick, Gentleman." Mycroft slides his key-card and walks through the open glass doors. "He hasn't roasted anything has he?"

"No," John answered.

"Good, then there's still time. Since you've been banned in practically every indoor place, it has to be somewhere outdoors... I know, Sherlock used to love going to the beach to practice his deduction skills. Why don't you take him there? I'll send you a car to transport you."

"Alright, thank you for your help, Mycroft."

"Goodbye, John. Give my regards to Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffed as John put the phone away. No doubt lightening the load on his conscience. That of course, bordered on sentiment. "Well, what did he say?"

John nervously rubbed the back of his neck and turned around to meet Sherlock's gaze. "He said to give you his regards." John cleared his throat... "And we should go to the beach."

"What? Why would Mycr-"

"Never mind, I could use a day away from the flat, i'll go get dressed." Sherlock ran through the hall to his room and quickly got his beach attire on.

The army doctor just stood there, wondering what made the detective jump at the chance to go to the beach. It's not like he said crime scene.

John marched up the stairs leading to his room. The army doctor quickly slipped on some grayish-blue beach shorts and a floral pattern shirt, and ran back down the stairs, eagerly awaiting to see what the detective would be wearing. He had never seen the detective dress casual a day in his life, unless he counted, The Sheet.

Sherlock soon emerged from his room wearing white beach shorts and a long sleeve, dark-blue shirt, that fit tightly around his body, exposing his sculpted muscles underneath. The man was not a toothpick, that was for sure.

John and Sherlock both looked at what each of them were wearing and after a few moments, broke out in laughter once more...

"You look...um, different."

"John, this has to stay between the two of us," Sherlock said in a deep, serious tone.

"Yes..right, let's get this over with." John opened the door, and the two of them walked out to be greeted by a small group of people laughing and cheering.

"About this staying between the two of us."

"Not a chance," Sherlock replied.

John and Sherlock smile and wave at a few screaming teenagers, before getting into their car.

...

"Are we there yet, John?"

"Almost," The army doctor shrugged and briefly glanced at the bored detective breathing on the glass and then trailing his finger over the fogged portion of the window to draw shapes.

"Sherlock?"

The detective took a moment away from his artwork to look over at John.

"Why don't you go into your mind palace until we get there?"

"No.. makes me dizzy," Sherlock replied sleepily, obviously holding back a yawn.

"How late did you stay up experimenting last night?"

"Till five."

That was no surprise. "All right, just sleep until we get there."

...

The two of them arrived at the beach.

After a few dozen deductions, Sherlock began to grow bored, so he made his way over to John, laying on his stomach and propping his head up on his elbows.

"I'm bored."

John dramatically exhaled and scooped up a handful of sand, when an idea struck him. "Why don't you build a sandcastle?"

"What's a sandcastle?"

"You don't know what a sandcastle is? Your brother told me that you visited the beach when you were a child."

Ah, so that's what brother dear told him. "To play deductions," Sherlock replied."

John gave Sherlock the basics... "It might sound boring, but you can stack the sand on top of each-other to create a very elaborate or simply designed castle."

"I challenge you to a castle building contest." Sherlock suddenly announced, out of the blue.

"But you just learn-"

"Never mind.. challenge accepted."

1 hour later...

The once vacant beach was now filled with a crowd of people, flocking around Sherlock.

"I'm at a loss for words," John muttered to himself.

Sherlock added the finishing touches on his five foot sandcastle with geometric designs, and stood up, receiving loud applause and shouts of praise.

"Hey, what's your friend's name?"

John turned around toward a teenage girl smiling widely, wearing a castle building t-shirt.

"Sherlock Holmes," John answered, and moved his attention to his beeping pocket.

"Sherlock, Lestrade just texted, we have a case...it's an 8!" John shouted, to be heard above the crowd.

Sherlock's eyes glimmered once again at the familiar words. The two of them ran to their car, shouting, "The Game Is On!"

...

"Who were those guys? And what does 'the game is on,' mean?"

"Dude, I got it, they're baseball fans. The Game Is On!"

"O really, then what did the short guy mean by 8?"

"I got it, there's been 8 home runs, so that's why they were rushing to go to the game. And Lestrade is their spy."

"Dude, you're so right!"

"No, I'm telling you, Sherlock Holmes is a detective name, you know from those Sir Arthur Conan Doyle books."

* * *

 **I had to put Sherlock drawing on the window :p I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. Feel free to review:)**


	4. Chapter 4: Danger In The Woods

A/N: **Thank you for all the lovely reviews, favorites, and follows. Special thanks goes to Bad Wolf Writer101 for the awesome reviews:) I originally wanted this chapter out sooner, but life kidnapped me and the ransom wasn't paid for a few days. Anyway, enjoy!**

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Chapter 4: Danger In The Woods

-SH-

It had been one of those days at the residence of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. The crimes were few and far between, and every bone in Sherlock's body cried out with boredom.

John sat across from the detective in a leather armchair, staring into the fireplace.

"Sherlock, why don't you knit?"

"Because I'm not a middle aged woman," The detective replied pertly.

"No, but you whine like a little girl," John said, lightly smirking.

Sherlock gave John a miffed look. "I don't engage in meaningless pursuits which do nothing to distract me from boredom." The detective ruffled his hair and stared at the wall, counting the different layers of paint and various cracks.

John took his phone out of his pocket and looked at the recent texts.

"Who's it from?"

"A friend of mine from the army went camping last week. Look, he sent me a picture of a trout." John tilted the phone towards Sherlock, causing him to make a face.

"I know, why don't we-"

"No."

"But you haven't heard the question," John retorted.

"You're going to suggest we go camping," Sherlock finished, shooting John a satisfied look.

"How did you know I didn't mean fishing?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something clever, but John cut him off.

"Never mind. So what is your answer?"

"Hmm... As in the woods? Bears, mosquitos, and countless other pestilence? No, I'm staying here," Sherlock huffed.

John sighed and packed both of their suitcases. Thinking he might be able to coax him into going later.

...

When John finished packing, everything was unusually quiet. So he decided to check up on the detective to see what atrocities he was committing in his room.

"Why of all things are you doing that, Sherlock?"

The world's only consulting detective was standing on top of his bed, rubbing balloons on his head to stick to the ceiling.

Sherlock whipped his head around in surprise as John entered, causing a few strands of hair to pop up from the left-over static. The army doctor to let out a chuckle as he sees them floating above his head.

John felt pity for him. The great detective Sherlock Holmes, was reduced to simple static electricity experiments. "Sherlock, will you just go camping with me? It's only for one night, then you can go back to solving crimes again."

Sherlock threw his hands up in surrender. "Fine, only if I can bring my jar of pickled feet?"

The army doctor frowned. "Sherlock, why in the world did you? ...Never mind, just put that, and anything else you want to bring in your suitcase."

Sherlock and John finished packing all the supplies into the trunk of their car, and headed off to Kent.

* * *

"See, what did I tell you? fresh forest air, a beautiful vie-"

"Ow! Sherlock, why did you do that?"

"Mosquito," The detective said nonchalantly, turning away from John with a smirk appearing on his lips.

The detective grabbed a can of bug spray out of the car door, and the two of them quickly lathered up, and began setting up their camping gear.

"Sherlock, you can't pitch a tent by yourself," John said, giggling as the detective ran franticly from one side to the other, trying to prevent the structure from collapsing.

John could have watched the sight all day, but he eventually gives in and they finish setting up all the camping gear.

"I'm going to find some berries and vegetables for dinner. Why don't you find some firewood while I'm gone?"

"Fine," Sherlock said, in a bored tone.

...

30 minutes later...

John laid out what he'd gathered from the woods onto a cloth and prepared them for consumption.

The smell of cooking vegetables, leads Sherlock back to the campsite, with his arms full of firewood and kindling. "Please don't tell me that's what we're going to eat?" Sherlock asked, grimacing as he eyed the array of berries and vegetables.

"Well that, and...this," John replied, lifting a portion of the cloth revealing two salmon.

The doctor chuckles as he sees the look of relief on his friends face.

...

20 minutes later...

"Sherlock, I can't eat while looking at floating feet in a jar. Just put them back in your suitcase."

"Fine, the sunlight's nearly gone anyway." A smile played on the detectives lips as he unzipped his suitcase, and placed the jar carefully on-top of the other items.

John shuddered to think what other horrifying experiments he kept in his suitcase. But pushed that thought away, focusing on keeping his dinner down.

The two of them soon finished eating and retired to their tents for the night. Scary stories weren't really their thing.

...

"John, wake up!"

Sherlock frantically shook the army doctor awake..

"Yes, what is it?" John asked, half asleep.

"There's a bear outside my tent!" The detective said, in a panicked tone.

"Oh, that's nice, Sherlock," John said yawning, before going to lie back down again.

He jolted up. "A bear!" John replied, in a fully awake tone.

"Yes, and who's brilliant idea was it that we leave our guns in the car?" Sherlock asked, patronizingly.

"Sherlock, you know how you get when you're bor-"

"Shhh."

John placed his hand on his scared friends shoulder, feeling a slight tremble. He spoke softly to him to calm the detective down. "Sherlock, the bear is still at the other tent, we need to escape now."

"How do you know?"

"I was a soldier, we had to have good hearing to know when the enemy was close bye."

John quietly opened the back zipper of the tent, and the two of them slid out, running frantically to their car.

35 minutes later...

...

"John?...I'm bored."

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 **If anyone else is wondering about bears in England, The guardian** **talked about Rewilding England to bring back bears and other wildlife. This chapter is set sometime in season 4. John saves Sherlock, Yess! If you liked this chapter, feel free to review:)**


	5. Chapter 5: The Deadly Dancer

A/N: **Thanks to everyone:)** **I couldn't help it:) *smiles mischeviously* Enjoy!**

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Chapter 5: The Deadly Dancer

-SH-

"Shut up, Mrs. Hudson."

"I haven't said a word," The landlady replied.

"You're formulating a question having to do with something unexplainable. It's physically painful watching you think right now."

"Youre dancing, again!"

"Very good, your deduction skills are improving," Sherlock replied sarcastically.

As the classical music comes to a pique, Sherlock swings both of his arms to the left, breaths in deeply, rises onto his left foot and does a full-circle pirouette.

The landlady claps. "Very good, Sherlock. I didn't know you were a ballet dancer?"

Sherlock turned to face her. "I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. This is all for a case." The detective put away the tape player and sat down in his leather chair.

"Are you going to tell John?" Mrs. Hudson asked, sitting in Johns chair.

"Of course I'm going to tell him, I'm just waiting for the right moment in time."

"Well, now's as good of time as any, dear. Here he comes."

Sherlock hears the sound of the doctors feet pounding on the steps, as he makes his way to his room. He turned his focus back to the landlady. "Anyway, you've got things to do."

"No, not really, I've got lots of time to spend-"

"The husband in Islamabad?" Sherlock replied.

"Oh, there is that one thing," The landlady said, getting up from Johns chair, and marching out of the room.

"See you later, John..."

"Bye, Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock grins mischievously as the the army doctor enters his room. "John, how's your dancing?"

5 minutes later...

...

"Lestrade wants us to do what? No... I'm not going undercover in a ballet school to help your brother nab some psychotic killer. Sherlock, since when do you care about dancing?"

The detective shrugs, inhales sharply, and does another full pirouette, landing in a front split. This leaves John's mouth agape and his brow furrowed. "Where did you learn to do that?"

The detective lowered his tone to a soft whisper. "I'll let you in on something, John. I love dancing. I've always loved it ever since I was a small boy. Never really comes up in crime work, but, um, you know, I hope it will someday.

"Seriously!" John sputtered

John clears his throat. "Um, why do I have to go undercover too? Can't I just sit on the benches?"

"John, it's the perfect cover. This man is a murderer. If he sees you sitting on sidelines, or benches as you put it, he's going to feel uncomfortable, and leave... John, you are going to keep an eye out for anything suspicious. So that means you're going to dress up, but not dance."

"You could have just said yes," John huffed.

All of a sudden. "Arrr, lets get our pirate gear on."

"Sherlock, why the voice?"

"I'm trying to get into character?"

"Right, let's just get this over with." John shrugged, a small smirk ghosting on his lips. How often was this sort of case going to pop up? This might be his only opportunity to see Sherlock in breeches.

* * *

\- The Elmhurst School for Dance

As they were nearing the entryway of the school, Sherlock and John both looked over at each others costumes. The two of them crack up in laughter, staring at their white shirts, full-length trousers, red vests, and belts.

"Anderson would hate to miss this."

"It's definitely the strangest assignment we've ever had," Sherlock replied, sliding his cutlass into his sheath.

"How did Mycroft get these costumes so fast?" John asked.

"He has connections. Put your sword on, John."

Once finished with preparations, they look over at each-other. "Shall we?"

The voice of the dance teacher echoed through the narrow halls as they made their way to the studio. "Ok class, we will begin practicing act one. Get into your designated places."

The detective walked onto an empty red x on the floor, and gets into position. The music soon starts and 26 dancers begin to sword fight while spinning their bodies and jumping into the air. Sherlock gestures to John to focus on the dancer to his right.

But after a while, the dancer feels someone's watching him, and John's position is compromised.

"Oh, Ms, I'm not feeling too well, I think I'll skip rehearsals."

The dancer suddenly makes a run for it and Sherlock and John chase him out of the school.

"Hands in the air!"

Lestrade handcuffs the dancer and puts him in a police car as Sherlock and John run out of the building. The whole police force starts laughing... except Anderson, who was snapping photos for future blackmail.

"When Mycroft told me you were going undercover, I never expected this," laughter breaks through his voice.

Even Donavan started to chuckle, seeing the detective dressed in that ridiculous costume.

"All that matters now is that you caught the killer," Sherlock retorted.

"Well, detective twinkle toes has a point." That last comment, started up a whole roar of laughter...

Sherlock tried his best to ignore them as he raised his arm to call a cab.

"Aw, Captain Sherlock, don't go back to treasure island with your shipmate," Lestrade playfully mocked as the two of them get into a cab and quickly drove off to their flat.

...

"Maybe we should move?"

* * *

 **The pirate of Baker Street, Lol:) I think I'll keep writing these until I run out of ideas. Feel free to review;)**


	6. Chapter 6: Getting Even

The noonday sun, was peering through the clouds; it's light illuminating the particles of dust, floating in the air.

Sherlock and John had just finished a kidnapping case, and they were bored, yet again. The army doctor is sitting in his brown leather chair, skimming his way through the morning paper, looking for a freshly folded news article, which he had placed under an abstruse paperweight, only a few hour's prior.

"Sherlock you need to see this!" John yells, his voice projecting to the kitchen where a certain detective was pouring a cuppa.

Sherlock walks over to John, carrying a steaming cup of tea in his hand, and hovers over the newspaper he's grasping tightly between his fingers.

 _Sherlock reads the article: The Consulting Pirate of Baker-street._

The detective looks over at his flat mate. "I knew it was only a matter of time, before Anderson blabbed to the media. How did he get a photo of me saluting?"

"He must have snapped that photo, right when I was calling a cab. Unpredictable timing on that one."

Sherlock shoots John an annoyed look, and takes his phone out of his jacket pocket.

Ring!

"Hello brother dear, how are you?"

"What do you want Sherlock?"

"How do you know I'm not calling to say hello?" Sherlock asks, faking a hurt tone.

"Sherlock I have a business meeting in an hour, get on with it."

"I need an exact copy of the police schedule," the detective replies flatly.

Mycroft's tone changes to one of secrecy. "Sherlock that's private government business. I am not at liberty to disclose information of that nature."

Sherlock's tone, changed to one of antagonistic quality. "Either you tell me, or someone will leak a certain rumor between you and the president of Albania."

"You wouldn't!"

"Try me."

Sherlock could practically hear the eye roll over the phone.

"Fine, I'll have one of my people bring it over to you."

Mycroft's voice, lowers to a whisper. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"If you ever tell anyone what happened that day, I will personally see to it, that every shred of evidence of your existence, be permanently deleted from every file on the face of this earth. I trust, I make myself clear?"

"Crystal."

Sherlock hangs up, and returns the phone to his jacket pocket.

"So, what did he say?" John asks.

"He's um... sending someone over here."

...

Mrs. Hudson bursts in the room, holding a leather briefcase, and hands it to the detective. Sherlock scans the documents, looking for a break in the pattern.

"Right here, he has saturday's and sunday's off."

"That's tomorrow."

"Yes John, and I know exactly where he's going to be."

Later the next day...

Beep!

"John, I just received a text. Lestrade has reason to believe, that a rouge police officer by the name of Fredrickson, has been secretly committing crimes. It's at least an eight."

"Here it is. He's going to be at Bart's in an hour, that should give us plenty of time to find Lestrade."

The two of them, soon arrive outside of Bart's, and walk inside.

Sherlock and John make their way over to the receptionist. "By any chance, do you have a visitor under the name DI Lestrade?"

"What my friend means to say, is Greg. We're just friends of his."

"Yes, there is someone named Greg, scheduled to perform in the children's wing."

John thanks the receptionist, and the two of them head off to the children's wing of the hospital.

...

"What on earth?"

There he was, Detective Inspector, chief of police for Scotland Yard, the same man, who he had observed, putting away violent criminals. Was jumping around, his whole body covered in white fur, including his nose and mouth, topped of with furry ears, flapping around on his head. A carrot was sowed into the material, which he grasped in one of his hands. Topped off, with a white, fluffy tail.

The two of them, stand in the middle of the doorway, dumbfounded. Sherlock smiles at the amused looks, and laughter of the children, as Lestrade hops around the room, and pretends to chew on the fake carrot in his hand.

"Now, children, it is time for me to return back to the planet of the rabbits, Lestrade announces. The children cheer, as the DI makes a magical exit."

Sherlock and John, wait behind the door.

As Lestrade walks out of the room, he suddenly freezes, with look of a wounded rabbit, caught in a hunters gaze. He felt the presence, of someone behind him.

"There is no rogue police officer, you put that there to distract me. To keep me from going to Bart's, and finding out about your little dress up party."

"Yes, but-"

"So, there is no rogue police officer, thank you. John, you owe me three pounds."

"You made a bet?"

"Yes. Goodbye." Sherlock replies, walking away.

"Wait!"

Sherlock gestures to John, to go on without him.

"Listen, Sherlock, I want to apologize about the comments I made yesterday. And I want to thank you, for not sending in a news crew."

"Yes, well, I accept your apology, revenge never really was my cup of tea. Besides, it's scientifically proven that a person feels true remorse for their actions, when the other person does nothing, to fuel the fire so to speak."

"Sherlock, have you been reading those psychology books again?" Lestrade asks.

"Unfortunately yes, John thinks they'll help me, in his own words, 'understand' how to be more human."

"He's not wrong."

"Good day, George." Sherlock turns around, and walks down the hall over to John.

Lestrade sighs heavily, and makes his way to the elevator, and exits the building.

...

"John? I have to make a quick stop at the morgue."

"Sherlock, why are we going to the morgue?" John asks.

"To see If Molly has any bodies that need to be taken off her hands. The head in our refrigerator is getting stale."

"Why do I even ask?"

* * *

 **A/N: special thanks for Arty Diane, for giving me an idea, to add a revenge, plot twister.** **I've had so much fun, writing these chapters for you guys. Thank you for reading, reviewing, and favoriting:) Lestrade in a rabbit costume Lol. chapter 7 will be out next week. Feel free to review;)**

 _Here is a list of characters with their animal pairings, that I thought, compliments their personalities._

0..o...0...O

 **Sherlock, would be a beaver,**

 **John, would be a sea-otter,**

 **Donavan, would be a mink,**

 **Mycroft, would be a turtle,**

 **Moriarty, would be a spider(obviously),**

 **Lestrade, would be a rabbit,**

 **Molly, would be a dolphin,**

 **Magnussen, would be a shark, (obviously)**

 **Anderson, would be a skunk,**

 **And Mrs. Hudson, would be a field-mouse.**

 _Just because they're from different worlds, doesn't mean they can't go into human form, and make a great series. Lol_

 **Thank you for reading *heart***


	7. Chapter 7: Two Can Play At This

**Thank you everyone for your support on this story:) Happy almost 4th of July everyone! Enjoy!**

* * *

John stands outside the flat, carrying bags of groceries. Worn down from the day, he calls for Sherlock to help him move them inside.

John puts the groceries down, giving his sore hands a rest. The army doctor oscillates on the pavement, growing tired of not receiving an answer. "I told him I was going to the store, and to be ready to help carry in the bags."

"Ok, you leave me no choice." John's voice grows louder. "If you don't come out here and help me, I'm going to tell the whole neighborhood what really happened between you and Irene."

John pauses for a moment, listening intently for an answer.

"You're bluffing, you weren't even in the room." Sherlock says, his voice being dulled by the insulation of the room that he occupies.

"If I wasn't there, how come you moved your hand up the sheet you were both laying on, and said that the room was getting cold, sliding your hand on-"

"John!"

The army doctor smirks triumphantly, as he hears the pounding of his feet on the steps, as he quickly runs out the door.

"Don't finish that sentence!" Sherlock huffs.

"Good, you're here. Now, be careful with this bag on the right, unless you want a dozen smashed eggs on your hands. We'll unload in the kitchen. You know, the place you store food instead of body parts," John says in a joking manor.

...

Seeing Sherlock's unamused look, the army doctor stops what he's doing for a moment, and considers a few amiable words.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes John?"

"What happened between you an Irene, is your business. I didn't mean to broadcast it all over London. I've just had a very long day tending to an overflow of patients, and the last thing that I needed, was to carry piles of groceries up a flight of stairs."

Sherlock looks at him intently for a few moments, and then answers. "Yes, well in my defense, I wasn't expecting you to be in the room. Where exactly were you?"

"In the bedroom closet, trying to cover my ears with a fur coat and earmuffs," John replies.

Sherlock slightly giggles, at the thought of the army doctor hiding in a closet, struggling to cover his ears with its contents.

"I learned two lessons that day. Never let yourself be trapped in Irene Adler's closet, and I look terrible in spots." John finishes, cracking on the last word, causing a whole uproar of laughter...

...

After they finish, putting up the items, John walks into the sitting room, and collapses into his brown leather chair with a long drawn out sigh. With Sherlock following behind.

"We're there any?" Sherlock asks, his hands forming an obscene object in the air.

"Yes many," John answers.

"The most uncomfortable 2 hours, I've ever had. Well, except for that one time when we upset our drill sargent, when we were stationed in Iraq."

Sherlock raises one eyebrow. "What did he do?"

"He made us run Devils Blood, a training regiment only given to soldiers training to go to war. That's pretty much when I decided to be an army doctor."

"Anyway, I'm going to make some tea." John gets up from his chair, and walks into the kitchen.

After the army doctor leaves, Sherlock sits up in his chair, placing his hands on the sides, closes his eyes, and travels to his mind palace.

...

"All right Sherlock," John yells. "Where on earth did you put twenty tea bags? And don't tell me their an experiment."

John waits for a moment, hoping the familiar voice of the detective would brisk the air. But all he heard was deafening silence, just like when Sherlock left. The army doctor hated this silence, it gave him comfort after what happened, to hear the strong warm voice of the detective.

John turns around, only to have his suspicions confirmed. "No, anything but this." _Well almost anything, John thinks to himself._ He knew, that when Sherlock was in his mind palace, it was almost impossible to get him out. Sometimes he was in for hour's, other times days. He would be in the worst moods when he got out, due to the lack of food and water, but Sherlock would blame it on something, like the biscuits being too hot, or the tea having too much honey(even though it didn't). Sherlock wouldn't even admit when he needed sleep. John fears what would happen to him if if he wasn't around.

The army doctor walks over to examine Sherlock.

 _Well, he's not exhibiting any of the warning signs. Maybe this is just one of his half hour visits, John thinks to himself. I'll give him one hour, just to be on the safe side._

* * *

John sips his glass of water, while nervously rocking back and fourth in his chair, waiting for the final minute to be up.

"Ok Sherlock, it's been an hour, you need to exit your palace now," John says in a serious, yet playful tone."

"Still nothing, alright, two can play at this." John looks around the room for something that could bring him back. The army doctors eyes widen, as they catch sight of something familiar resting on the desk to his right."All right Sherlock, if you're not coming out, I'm breaking in."

John walks over to the object lying on the desk, and places it under his chin. He's seen Sherlock do it many times, so he has no problem placing his hands in the correct positions.

But playing it, was another matter.

John takes a deep breath and slowly begins to move his fingers on the frets, while sliding the bow different directions in the middle of the instrument. _If only he knew how much pressure to use._

Meanwhile...

Sherlock is busy filing all the useful information he knows into glass bins, and placing them onto shelves. But with all the useful information, sometimes irrelevant and useless information squeezes its way in. Like the solar system. Sherlock gathers all the proverbial thorns of his intellect, into one giant pile, and begins to delete them one by one.

...

As time crawls by, Sherlock is vaguely aware of a strange squeaking noise. He focuses his attention to the outside for a moment to investigate.

He is almost certain he's hearing The Woman's theme. But with the sour notes and loud screeches, it's difficult to distinguish.

...

A sudden, sharp, sour note, causes him to grimace. John sees this, but continues to play, cracking a smile once in a while, at Sherlock's expressions.

Sherlock swallows hard to keep from laughing, struggling to focus his attention inside. But there is only so much abuse he can take.

"All right John! You can stop whatever it is you're doing to my violin."

The army doctor, places the instrument back on the desk. "Where did you put all the tea bags? I called your name several times. What were you doing in there, that you couldn't hear me?"

"I was filing, before you tormented my eardrums. Later today, you said that you were going to the store, so I used the teabags for an experiment while you were gone," Sherlock replies.

"Ok, ok... right. I really should have seen this coming. What did you use all of them for?" John asks.

"Tea," Sherlock says smirking.

John scrunches his eyes in a confused manor. "What, you said you used them for an experiment, now your telling me that you made tea with them?"

"Yes. I was bored."

"Why would you use twenty tea bags, for one cup of tea? When the package clearly says one per cup?" John asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I heard that it's one of the strangest tastes known to man, so I had to try it for myself."

"Sherlock, you really need to stop going to those kinds of websites when you're bored," John says flatly.

John puts his coat and shoes on. "Sherlock, I'm going back to the store, try not to blow up the flat while I'm gone."

"I'll try, but I'm not promising anything," The detective jokes.

After John leaves the flat, Sherlock goes over to the kitchen table.

"Where did John hide my blowtorch?"

* * *

 **Hey guys, I hope you have a fun 4th of July! These are so fun to write:) Everyone who's reading this, I'm currently writing a book, so I can't write stories and chapters as fast as I have been. But don't worry, I'll still write, just not too often. Chapter 8 will be available very soon;) Also feel free to check out my: Sherlock's Son, story. Feel free to review this chapter;)**


	8. Chapter 8: The Dormant Detective

**I would like to thank: Arty Diane, Icecat62, Bad Wolf Writer101, bublecloudz, Cartlin, Sherlocked453, Daydreams. &.Butterflys(there's an 'and' in between, but the document keeps removing it), last but not least: MsRomRaz1.**

 **Thank you everyone for the lovely reviews, favorites, and follows;) this story has gone far, because of you *heart***

 **I was originally going to do this chapter next week, but Mrs. Hudson confiscated my gun, so I'm going to write to dull my boredom. Enjoy!**

* * *

The rainy streets of London, made it a somewhat arduous task, for the army doctor to get to the flat. Stepping in an occasional puddle he didn't see, and cursing under his breath. "Sherlock you would not believe how many patients came in to work today! It was like the whole of England showed up."

John hangs his coat on a free peg, quickly attending to removing his soggy shoes and socks. Ever since he had gotten a touch of pneumonia when he was in the military, the army doctor was always leery of getting wet.

John hangs the dripping articles above the fireplace to dry.

"Sherlock?... I know that silence anywhere, either you're experimenting, or you're in your mind palace." The army doctor walks up the stairs to his bedroom. Hoping that he wasn't roasting another body part.

...

He couldn't believe it. At that moment, he wanted to hire 1000s of painters to capture this extremely rare moment. John pinches his arm to make sure he isn't dreaming.

There he was, all tucked into bed, his chest moving ever so slightly, rustling the covers resting beneath his chin. Sherlock was sleeping, actually sleeping. His eyes were actually closed.

John makes his way down into the kitchen, to find Mrs. Hudson putting the kettle on."Mrs. Hudson you need to see this."

The landlady follows John up to Sherlock's room.

When they enter his room, she looks over at Sherlock for a moment, and then at the army doctor. "John I've been meaning to tell you something."

"Ok?"

"Later this after noon, I had just gotten back from the store. When I I saw Sherlock hunched over in his chair, sleeping on his microscope..."

John's eyes widen for a moment, then he gestures to Mrs. Hudson to continue..

...

"I thought to myself, that couldn't be good for his neck. So I woke him up. When he came to, he told me that he wasn't sleeping, and to get out, rather rudely I might add. So I left, and attended to making some tea."

"Things went smoothly for a while, until I heard him yelling from his room. When I went to go and see what all the commotion was about, I saw him standing on his bed, looking rather frightened and confused, holding a crumpled newspaper in his hand for a weapon."

"I asked him what he was doing on top of his bed, and he started complaining about purple elephants, dancing around in his room."

"Excuse me, did you say purple elephants?" John asks, in a bemused tone.

"Yes," The landlady replies.

"Right, just so were clear on that. Continue," John says.

...

"The poor man hadn't had a proper nights rest in days. So I slipped a little something into his tea." The landlady finishes, and looks over at John, waiting for an answer.

"Well, I guess the mystery is solved," John says, furrowing his brow, and smiling foolishly at the sleeping figure in front of him.

"Just keep an eye on him will you Mrs. Hudson?" The landlady nods, and John makes his way into the living room, grabbing his laptop off the kitchen table...

* * *

"Good morning sleeping beauty," John teases.

"I swear the landlady must have slipped me something." Sherlock yawns sleepily and retrieves his laptop from his bedroom and sits on the couch.

"John, why are people texting #Sleepylock on my blog?..." The detective continues to read. " _I hope you had a nice rest Sherly, the case of the sleeping detective is in progress_..." Sherlock looks up from his laptop, scowling at John. "You told them I was sleeping didn't you?"

"People need to know that you're human."

"Why?"

"Because the're interested?" John retorts.

"Why are people interested in me taking a nap. It's not like I solved a double murder," Sherlock huffs, slamming the laptop-lid with a loud click.

"People are attracted to rare things, and you taking a nap is not exactly an everyday occurrence. Now that I think about it, it's not even a monthly occurrence. Well, apart from that one time, when you were knocked out by that dwarf with the poisoned darts"

"How was I supposed to know they were drugged? It wasn't as though we could ask him questions while he was trying to kill us on that rooftop." Sherlock clasps his hands in frustration.

"Yes, well, removing it wasn't exactly the highlight of my day either, with all the fuss you were making."

 _"You try sitting still, when there's a three-inch long dart sticking out of your-"_

"Oh, good, you're awake, I made you boys some tea." Mrs. Hudson smiles as she places the tray down in front of them, giving Sherlock a strange look before leaving the flat.

...

John sips his tea, and continues the conversation. "You were lucky Molly found that antidote in time."

"If only you had remembered to bring morphine. _Look Sherlock! there's a pink squirrel on that tree over there."_

"Don't look at me like that, how was I supposed to know it wouldn't work on you?" John says in a defensive tone.

"Of course it didn't work. There's no such thing as a pink squirrel," Sherlock protests.

John giggles slightly. "Casework wasn't exactly easy after that."

"Don't remind me. It took me a week before I could sit down again."

"Yes, and Donavan didn't exactly make it easier on you. She thought you were a freak more than ever after that." John sits back in his chair, remembering the puzzled looks of the police.

"I had no choice, I couldn't put any pressure on that... area."

Sherlock inhales sharply, and gets up from the sofa. "Anyway, I'm going to get back to my experiment."

"In that case, should I bring in the purple elephants in now, or later?" The army doctor smirks, as he walks out of the sitting room.

"John, I didn't do, or say anything strange did I?" Sherlock asks, in a worried tone."

"John!"

* * *

 **I hope this chapter made you laugh:) if so, drop me a line or two in the reviews. I'd love to know about it:D Chapter 9 will be out next week, or the week after that. But in all seriousness, feel free to review;)**


	9. Chapter 9: Dating Disaster

**A sincere thank you, to all of my reviewers, favoriters, and followers;)**

* * *

Sherlock gently twists the coarse adjustment knob on the side of his microscope, to magnify a few cotton fibers on the slide. Feeling satisfied with the placement he slowly turns the fine adjuster a fraction of a millimeter, and stares into the lens. He studies the dancing organisms for a few minutes, before moving on to an orange peel...

Several minutes later...

John races through the door, and runs to his bedroom. "Sorry I can't talk, I have a date in a few minutes."

"Sherlock I cant find my-"

"Jesus, Sherlock why are my socks on the table?"

"I needed them for a cotton sample, don't worry, they're perfectly alright," the detective replies.

John shoots Sherlock a look, and quickly snatches the articles off the table in front of him.

"I don't have time for this Sherlock, just don't do anything drastic while I'm gone." The army doctor says his goodbyes to Sherlock, and runs out the door.

...

Seeing that he's alone, the detective fishes his phone out of his pocket, and plops himself down on the sofa.

 **I'm Bored- SH**

 **I'm very busy, go bug John- MH**

 **He's out on a date- SH**

 **Why don't you get some fresh air?- MH**

 **Air is boring- SH**

 **Without air you wouldn't be alive, and we wouldn't be having this conversation- MH**

 **Somehow, I don't see a downside to that- SH**

 **...**

 **...**

Feeling satisfied, Sherlock lays his head down on the square pillow behind him, and soon finds himself deep in his mind palace, keeping himself busy, by re-reading old books, and looking over recent cases.

* * *

All of a sudden he hears the familiar squeak of a door, and focuses his attention to the outside to investigate further. Sherlock analyzes the pounding of angry feet against the hard wood floor, getting closer with each passing second, until a dead silence fills the once blusterous flat.

A small trail of cologne, drifts toward Sherlock, filling every cell with the brusk scent of his flatmate.

 _Why is John back from his date so soon? he usually stays overnight._ Sherlock's thoughts are interrupted as he feels something drop into his lap. The detective abruptly opens his eyes, and stares into the angry face of the army doctors towering overhead.

"Sherlock, what the hell did you do to my socks?"

"You know what I did John, I took a small sample of cotton fibers and examined them, that is all."

The army doctor slips out of his shoes, and turns off the lights.

John's voice lowers. "If you're not the culprit, explain this." The army doctor peels off his socks, to reveal two glowing feet.

Sherlock can't help but let out a giggle, at the strange sight in front of him. "Where exactly have you been these past hours?"

"It's not funny, it cost me my date Sherlock." John tries hard to keep his composure, but eventually looses control, and joins the detective in fits of laughter...

"How did this happen Sherlock? seriously."

"I don't know, but I'm ruling out the possibility of mutation."

The two of them chuckle at the comment and soon search the table for anything that could have caused it.

"Sherlock there's a glass bottle on the table. John reads the tag: "phosphorescent ink."

"Your powers of deduction never cease to amaze me John!" the detective remarks sarcastically.

"No, that's not what I mean," John retorts.

"That bottle has been empty all day." Sherlock replies.

"That's not exactly true."

"What?"

Sherlock takes a closer look, and sees a single drop of ink floating around the bottom in constituent circles, as he tilts the bottle in different directions, to test its mobility.

Sherlock flicks the light switch one last time, and pours the substance into his hand. Sure enough, the same luminescent glow was radiating from it.

"I'm going to take a shower." John leaves the sitting room, and walks into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Sherlock smirks at the thought of the army doctor, trying to scrub his glowing feet with a soapy sponge, and walks over to the kitchen sink to scrub the middle part of his palm.

"How is it coming John?" Sherlock shouts.

The bathroom door, slowly opens behind him. "It came off, but now we have a different problem."

"What?"

"How we're going to clean all the glowing trails of footprints, before Mrs. Hudson gets back."

* * *

 **John's turning into somethingLol:D I know this chapter was a little short, but the idea limits the number of words you can use sometimes. Chapter 10 will be out next week. Feel free to review;)**


	10. Chapter 10: A Truce Among Enemies

**Thank you for all the lovely reviews last chapter, and thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed, and favorited;) Enjoy!**

* * *

"John?"

"I'm bored!"

The army doctor deeply sighs. "Have you been to your mind palace?"

"Yes, and before you go down the list of mundane exercises that you're about to ask me if I've tried, look on the top shelf of the refrigerator."

John hesitates for a moment, unsure if he should risk going in, thinking back to a particularly disturbing, and shocking event.

 _There he was, back from his shift at the hospital, his body craving for food as he walks up the steps to the flat. But the peace and quiet didn't last for long. For as soon as he acknowledges the unusually sedate atmosphere; he hears a series of gunshots being fired. John's soldier instincts immediately take over, and he runs upstairs to apprehend the intruder to protect his flatmate. He can still remember the anger and shock he felt when he saw his flatmate holding the weapon. After his time in Afghanistan, the army doctor never believed he would hear or see a gun again, especially in Sherlocks hand. He immediately snatches it from his flatmate, and hides it to the best of his abilities, where he believes Sherlock will never find it._

 _Little did he know, that he was about to receive another surprise. For after all the adrenalin subsided, the army doctor began to feel hungry again, and he made his way to the refrigerator. When opened it, his eyes caught sight of something disturbingly gruesome. A severed head was resting on a package of butter..._

"John?"

"John!"

"Yes?...um." The army doctor clears his throat, and continues speaking. "I'll take your word for it. Have you done your periodic table recounting?"

"Yes. This morning when I was too bored to sleep." Sherlock sulks as he makes his way into the sitting room and collapses onto the sofa.

"Why don't you text your brother?" John asks.

"Boring."

"Moriarty?"

Sherlock's eyes twinkle with merriment. _How he missed messing with his deranged psychopath._ He lays his head down on a square pillow behind him, and soon finds himself deep in his mind palace.

"I guess that's a yes," John whispers in an unsure tone, as he leaves the room.

...

 **Ordinary people are so boring- M**

 **But on the bright side, I recently acquired a new pair of shoes, they're a lot skinnier than my last pair- M**

 **...**

 **Let's play a game- M**

 **I'd rather not- SH**

 **Don't be a sissy- M**

 **...**

 **I know you're bored, sprawled out on the couch, with your head resting on a red pillow- M**

 **How do you know?- SH**

 **Walk down the stairs, and look a few degrees to your left- M**

 **...**

 **A little further- M**

 **...**

Sherlock paces himself as he walks towards the front door, as if unsure of his destination. He slowly turns the knob, and comes face to face with the grinning psychopath. "Did you miss me? **"**

"I know you must have many questions, you are a bit slow in that department, but first; do you have anything to eat around here? I just got back from Greece and I'm starving." Moriarty looks through a few cupboards, before finding a half eaten pastry in the fridge.

"What were you doing in Greece?" Sherlock asks.

"Oh, you know the usual top-up. You buy, you sell, and if someone screws you over." Moriarty gingerly slides one of his shoes into the sunlight soaked floor, and gives facial and verbal representation to his meaning.

"Why are you here?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm here because you need me," Moriarty replies.

"Why would I need you?"

"Without me, you're just a bored sociopath with a blood sugar problem. Now, shall we get to it?"

"Get to what," Sherlock asks.

"Burning you!" Moriarty takes a napkin off the counter and wipes his mouth and hands, before throwing it into the garbage.

The detectives eyes widen for a moment; as Moriarty holds up a rectangular shaped box. "Well, that is if you don't beat me. I should warn you, I have never been defeated."

"I too have the same statistics," the detective replies strongly.

* * *

"Sherlock your soldiers will never cross the river, I have it guarded," Moriarty boasts.

"Yes, but your other three provinces across the river, are unguarded," Sherlock replies smugly...

"That's cheating, you're not supposed to be able to build a cannon without the card," Moriarty retorts.

Sherlock mutters something under his breath.

"Don't mock me!... Fine, if you're not going to use the cards, than neither am I," Moriarty gathers both of their playing cards into a pile, and lights them on fire with a stray match he digs out of his trousers.

"I didn't tell you to disintegrate them, I was merely explaining that I'm not going to be using them." Sherlock grabs a hand-full of the chard remains, and throws them into the trash. "We can't let John know about this, it will ruin our reputations."

Sherlock sits back down on the hard-wood floor across from Moriarty. With both their eyes fixed strongly on one another, they continue...

...

"Oh, nice going, you just destroyed both our kingdoms. You can't launch a missile without being a distance of at least 100 to 250 meters away," Sherlock chides.

"It's not like they come with a warning tag," Moriarty defends.

"You're supposed to be a weapons expert. Or were you just bluffing about being able to blow up NATO in alphabetical order?"

"That's top secret information, which I am not at liberty to disclose," Moriarty says dryly. "Besides, what about you? and your colossal sized oil drill, that split the meridian province in two. I needed that land for farming."

"No you didn't, I burned all your seeds," Sherlock says coldly. Your kingdom "Uoynurblliwi is defenseless. Did you really think you were going to trick me, by writing it backwards? It sounds like a name for a mentally challenged fugitive, wanted in twelve countries."

"It sounds more poetic written backwards. Besides I could say the same thing about yours, the Kingdom of Noitcuded. Please, it sounds like a motion-sickness pill," Moriarty mocks.

"You didn't think it would be that easy did you?"

Sherlock's brow furrows.

An hour later...

"This wasn't the best idea," Sherlock remarks with a disappointed tone, as he stares down at the smoldering villages, and crumbling castles."

"No, it wasn't." Moriarty replies, as he drags his hand over his face. "Well, I'd better be off. I've enjoyed this little game of ours. After all, You don't have much time left."

"You'll be hearing from me Sherlock. Bye" Moriarty speaks in a sing-song voice, as he exits through the front door.

...

The army doctor walks into the sitting room, only to find Sherlock in the exact same position, since when he left him. Lying down on the sofa with his hands clasped under his chin.

"How did your chat with Moriarty go?"

"Just swimmingly."

"He didn't stop by for a visit did he?" John asks.

"It was a long distance conversation, nothing more. Why are you asking?"

"Because there's a note attached to an empty plate I left earlier." The army doctor replies.

Sherlock runs like a flash into the kitchen, and stares at the crumb covered note. _This was delicious, your pet has a talent for choosing desserts. Remind me to send him a note- M_

John shifts his gaze from the refrigerator over to his flatmate.

"Sherlock, just what exactly have you been up to today?"

* * *

 **This chapter was very fun to write;) If you liked this chapter I would love to hear about which parts are your favorite:D chapter 11 will be out probably next week. Feel free to review;)**


	11. Chapter 11: The Mystery Of Seamoore

**I do not own Aase's Death or Edvard Grieg, or Peer Gynt,** **I just used the title for reference. All this work is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit or gain.**

 **To:** **silentdreamer126, bubblecloudz, MsRomRaz1, KkGgINoU, Icecat62, Cartlin, BAD WOLF WRITER101, .Butterflys, NoXenko, grape500,** **Arty Diane** **. You guys are amazing! You make writing so much fun, and I'm very grateful to all the favs, follows, and reviews you have given me.**

 **Icecat62: Yes, I also loved the image of Moriarty playing with Sherlock, and I tried to make it as enjoyable as playing with his brother, so thank you.**

 **Arty Diane: Yes, I myself found myself giggling at times while I wrote it. That's good, I used them for a certain effect. Yes, he's very confused and a bit spooked by what occurred. Thank you for the compliment.**

 **KkGgINoU: thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed it! I will tell you somewhere in this chapter. Moriarty texted Sherlock first, just as Sherlock was about to text. The board game they were playing, is called Axis and Allies. Enjoy everyone!**

* * *

The rainy streets of London, were no place for a bored detective with no cases.

Sherlock grabs his gun out of the hidden drawer under his desk, before placing it back in defeat. For out of the corner of his eye, a beautifully stained wooden instrument was beckoning from a small chair across from the room.

He longed to feel the ivory strings beneath his fingers and the rustic smell of the resin, as he drifted into a melodic trance. Numbing his boredom, as his fingers poetically dance across the strings with oscillating cries. Completing his sonata of boredom.

...

"Aase's Death?, it sounds like a funeral in here."

"You're bored again aren't you?" John asks.

"To the very epiphany John." Sherlock raises one eyebrow and cocks his head sideways as if in that moment, the army doctor became one of his experiments... "You've never taken an interest in classical pieces before... how did you know I was playing Aase's Death?"

"Because, I actually heard it playing at a funeral when I was in the army." John chuckles, and makes his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"Sherlock!"

"Seriously, I don't want to feel like I'm making poisoned tea."

The detective gives John a guilty look, and quickly places his violin back onto the chair.

...

"John?"

"Sherlock?"

"Why are you staring at me that way?" Sherlock asks.

"Because I think your not being entirely honest with me." John carefully sips his steaming cuppa, and pops a biscuit in his mouth.

"Honest...about what?"

The army doctor stares at his flatmate intensely, giving him the ' _you know exactly what I'm talking about face_.'

"Oh, that...can't we just forget about that John? You've been complaining for days."

"No, we cant just forget about it, there was a note in the refrigerator with Moriartys signature on it. I know you're keeping something from me, and I'm going to find it..."

"John? stop staring it's getting annoying."

"John?"

Sherlock gets up from his brown leather chair; to put the tea tray back in the kitchen, with the army doctor walking eerily in front of him, still making eye contact.

"So this is it. You're just going follow me around all day with that...look?"

The army doctor says nothing.

The quick ping of a text, interrupts their staring contest. Sherlock takes his phone out of his left jacket pocket, and rummages through the recent list of cases, hoping catch a glimpse of something intriguing. After days of burglary cases, he was craving for something dangerous, and unyielding to be solved by any normal methods of Scotland Yard.

The corners of his mouth pull apart into a satisfied grin, as he eyes a certain message on his screen.

 **The Seamoore case**

"John, there's been a number of strange occurrences, at an old seaside motel. Apparently it was built in the 90s, but since then, it's been sold to numerous bankers, and small town business men. Its recent owner is a man named Horus Blately. According to this article, he used to be an insurance salesman before striking it rich on a malpractice suit. After which he married and commandeered The Seamoore Motel."

"But if he struck it rich after winning the lawsuit, why did he commandeer a motel?" John asks.

"The most logical assumption, is that they spent it all on honeymoon and wedding expenses." Sherlock slips on his coat, and packs a few supplies for the road.

"Sherlock, what possible reason do you have for bringing a shovel?" John asks.

"You'll find out soon enough John."

The two of them finish packing the rest of the supplies, and head off to Scotland yard.

...

"Molly, why are you coming?" Sherlock asks.

"Strange occurrences could mean anything," Molly replies.

"Yes, but not necessarily corpses," Sherlock retorts.

"it's best to be on the safe side," Molly smiles.

Sherlock and John head towards the taxi, before being stopped by Lestrade.

"No, were taking the van, for surveillance purposes."

"Isn't that paint job a little high profile for surveillance work?" Sherlock asks.

"From what I've heard from the locals, there's a lot of trees in the area, so we need to blend in."

After all the equipment is installed in the van, the six of them head off to Seamoore.

...

Before long, soft giggling can be heard in the back seat. "John, why are you laughing?"

"Sherlock, are you telling me that you don't find this situation humorous?"

"What situation?"

"Lestrade is driving, Molly is in the passenger side, me and Anderson are in the back... and were all driving in this van, to solve a mystery..."

Sherlock gives John a puzzled look.

"Ok, remember that saturday morning cartoon?..."

* * *

They soon arrive at Seamoore and park the van in the surrounding trees.

"What's the matter with you two?" Lestrade asks.

"Were just very enthusiastic about the case," John replies, the laughter breaking through his voice causing it to crack.

"Ok gang, we need to search for evidence. Anderson? If you and Donavan find anything strange or out of place you report back to me."

"I'm just glad he didn't pair me up with Anderson, this blond hair wouldn't do me justice."

Sherlock and John break out in laughter once more, earning very bewildered looks from Anderson, and Donovan, as the two of them head off to the Seamoore hotel.

...

A strong smell of seaweed, greats them as they enter the building.

"You must be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, a real pleasure to meet you both!" Mr. Blately shakes their hands.

"Now, i'll get right to the point. Our guests have been complaining of strange digging, and talking sounds, coming from the floor and the ceiling. when I go outside and check, I find nothing, and chalk it up to wild animals. But just recently, I heard a full conversation coming from the attic. When I went to investigate, I heard what sounded like the scrambling of footsteps, then not a sound for days. Mr. Holmes, the residents including myself, partly believe we've gone mad."

"Hmm. I don't believe you've gone mad at all. Someone is going through a lot of trouble to make you think so. To make you question your own sanity. No, this is a far more elaborate scheme."

"Just an arbitrary question, what happened to all the money you won from that malpractice suit?" John asks.

"I spent that years ago on my wedding and honeymoon expenses."

"Just, exactly where is your wife?" Sherlock asks.

"She's helping our guests get situated, one of them was complaining of back pain. What can I say, I married a saint, Mr. Holmes."

"That's all very wonderful. Me and my team are going to need a room for the night."

"Sherlock, why are we staying the night?" John asks.

"I want to experience these nightly occurrences for myself John. They are the key to unlocking this case."

"Here you are Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you," John replies.

...

Nightfall soon strikes the town of Seamoore. With the sunlight fading, the police team retire for the night.

Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream breaks the silence.

...

The whole police team, bursts into Molly's room, holding guns.

"Where's the intruder!" Lestrade shouts.

"It's under the bed?" Molly says, grasping the covers tightly around her body.

"What? your bed is barely three inches off the ground, that's not enough space for a full grown man to fit."

Sherlock and John bend down, and look underneath the bed.

A little mouse was shaking against a corner of the wall, too petrified to move.

"You screamed because of a mouse?"

"I-"

"Shhhh, what's that sound?"

...

I'm telling you, we have nothing to worry about, they're asleep. Now you bang on that part of the roof, and i'll scratch on this part of the roof, and when we hear someone coming we hide.

"Right, Jerry!"

"Put your hands behind your head! and come down from the roof..."

5 minutes later...

"If you were common thief's you would have just stolen what your looking for, but you didn't, you have been terrorizing the residents here because you want the hotel for yourself, or rather what's underneath the property."

"Someone hand me a metal detector!" Sherlock shouts.

Anderson gives Sherlock the metal detector, and stands back as chunks of dirt go flying into the air...

* * *

"So that was an interesting case. Who would have thought that there was an actual gold mine on his property?"

Sherlock clears his throat.

"I know you did Sherlock, I was there. And it turns, out that shovel you brought came in handy. Although, I don't think we will ever get the image of Anderson wearing that dog collar, out of our heads," John finishes.

"Yes, the name tag was an unfortunate coincidence: Scampie Dinkerman."

"He did say it was for his sisters pet, and it was the only gift shop for miles."

...

"Sherlock? You're never going to tell me if Moriarty was actually here are you?"

"And you're really not going to give this up are you?" Sherlock replies.

John folds his arms in protest, and stands up from his chair.

"Fine. Yes he was here, we were very bored, and he did leave that note in the refrigerator... Where are you going?"

"To the store. Ever since you mentioned the refrigerator, I've been craving some very wild food combinations."

* * *

 **This is probably the strangest chapter I've ever written!** **Anderson in a dog-collar...** **Which parts are your favorite? Anyway, chapter 12 will be out next week, and I promise it will be more ordinary, but still funny. Feel free to review;)**


	12. Chapter 12: You Want Me To Do What?

**I didn't think anyone would like that last chapter, but I guess I was proved wrong. I'll continue to write more strange plots, every so often. A big 'Thank You' to all of my followers, favoriters, and reviewers;) This chapter was very fun and entertaining to write. Enjoy!**

* * *

The whole of London was once again hatefully silent, with the occasional vexatious voice in the street selling newspapers; and the idle conversations of the people below.

John sips his tea, while browsing through a section of the Daily Telegraph. Leaving Sherlock once again, trying to subdue his rancid thoughts with those of a more subsequent nature in his vast storehouse of memories.

John glances up from his newspaper over to his flatmate. The army doctor would often watch him for a number of hour's, unaware of the time passing. The detectives fluttering eyelids and his unique and rambunctious hand gestures; were an added entertainment for the bored army doctor. He often wondered how he was able to concentrate so flawlessly, that almost no outside noise could distract him from his work. One exception being himself. He had a many, sometimes unsavory methods to stir the detective from his palace.

But this time, he was too bored to utilize them and ruin his only antidote.

"Boys, I've brought you some sandwiches." Mrs. Hudson comes into the sitting room as cheerful as ever, carrying a tray of watercress.

"O dear, has he been like that all day?" the landlady asks, eyeing the meditating figure on the sofa.

"I'm afraid so Mrs. Hudson. He hasn't stirred from that spot ever since he got a text from Lestrade, vaguely outlining his worst fear. Which of course for Sherlock is like displaying it in bold."

"Now it seems were both reduced to slowly rotting."

"I'm sorry to hear that, I know how much you boys love solving those crimes. Can You?"

"Yes," John replies.

The army doctor walks over to Sherlock on the sofa, and gently grasps his hand.

"John, I'm busy."

"I know. You've been busy for four hour's, but now it's time to eat, so that if Lestrade texts you; we will have enough energy to solve the crime, and not collapse on the pavement."

"John, that was one time," Sherlock huffs, still not opening his eyes.

"Sherlock do you remember The Hollow Client?"

The detective thinks for a moment, and then hastily grabs a watercress off the tray in front of them.

The army doctor gives a satisfied grin at Mrs. Hudson, and also grabs a sandwich off the tray.

"I'll leave you two alone. There's some biscuits in the fridge if you get hungry." Mrs. Hudson gives her goodbyes and leaves the flat.

"Well, I'm going to my experiments," Sherlock announces, and walks into the kitchen.

John watches the detective closely, as he grabs a bowl and a bottle from the spice rack.

Seeing that he couldn't possibly cause too much damage with the items that he gathered, the army doctor fetches his laptop off the table, and for the next few minutes he concerns himself with updating his blog.

...

"John, can you come here for a moment?"

The army doctor sighs and removes himself from his chair, and goes into the kitchen.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Can you stick your finger in this bowl?"

The army doctor immediately turns his attention to the ceramic bowl with floating black particles in front of him.

"No, the last time you asked me to stick my hand in something I got a second-degree burn, and I had to wear an ice-pack for two days," The army doctor sputters.

* * *

"John, can you remove my experiments from the oven and the refrigerator? I'm in the bath... Be careful, one of them is exothermic... that means it's extremely hot... put them on the heat resistant tarp on the counter," Sherlock shouts.

"Alright, but they better not be body parts."

"No, they're just fluids that I genetically modified," Sherlock finishes.

John slides oven mitts over both his hands, and takes out the bowl in the oven first. With the first bowl safely on the tarp, John removes his oven mitts to handle the second bowl in the refrigerator...

"Ahhhhhh!"

"You touched the one in the refrigerator didn't you?" Sherlock scolds.

* * *

"It's not my fault that you didn't know which bowl I meant."

"Yes it is Sherlock. If you would have explained to me that the extremely hot bowl was in the refrigerator, I would have kept my oven mitts on."

"Well, of course it was. You don't cool something in an oven," Sherlock chides.

"You didn't mention anything about cooling," John retorts.

"Yes I did. You just weren't listening, or you forgot that I mentioned it."

John rubs the back of his neck. "Whatever Sherlock, I vowed that day that I would never touch another experiment of yours ever again. And i'm not going to break it."

The army doctor struts out of the kitchen and collapses onto his chair in the sitting room. "Wait for it," John mutters.

"Pleeeeaaaasssse Jawwn! I'm so incredibly bored. I can feel my brain wasting away." Sherlock looks up from his cries of despair over to a smiling army doctor walking toward him.

"You never change do you?"

"All right, I'll do it. But if I get hurt again, you're the one who will be visiting the hospital."

Sherlock nods.

"Before I do this, can you at least tell me what's in it?"

"No," Sherlock says dryly. "It has to be a surprise."

The army doctor hovers his hand over the surface of the bowl and gulps nervously.

Sherlock was enjoying watching as the army doctors hand lowered and rose above the bowl. The fearful stops he would make; just barely hovering over the liquid, added to the amusement.

Sherlock softens his voice to a reassuring tone. "John?"

The army doctor hesitantly stops just a millimeter from the liquid. "What?"

"I promise that I won't hurt you. Just do this for me John."

The army doctor sighs even heavier, and positions his valuable appendage above the unknown liquid.

After exhaling dramatically, John screws his eyes shut, and slowly lowers his finger into the murky water...

John moves his finger around for a few seconds, and knits his brow.

"Sherlock this is water."

...

Loud laughter fills the flat, causing John to open his eyes.

"You...you horrible little git!...this was all to entertain you wasn't it? You made me think there was something harmful in this bowl, to amuse you!"

"Yes. Might I say your performance was exemplary." Sherlock hovers his hand over the bowl and re-enacts the army doctors bodily gestures and motions.

The army doctor scowls angrily at Sherlock.

"John, let's be rational about this. There was no harm done, and your finger is safe."

"You're not still thinking about that hospital idea are you?" Sherlock asks.

"I have no intention of sending you to the hospital, I have something far more terrible in mind."

...

Two hours later...

"John, how many more times do I have to write this?" Sherlock asks.

"All right, I suppose I should be merciful. I want you to clean the chalk-board and tell me when you're finished."

...

"I'm finished, now what?" Sherlock replies.

"Grab a new piece of chalk, and write: I will tell my flatmate what's in my experiments from now on. 1000 times."

* * *

 **Oh, the nerve of that detective sometimes! At least he's occupied... Right? Chapter 13 will be out next week. Feel free to review;)**


	13. Chapter 13: A Hairy Situation

**Apologies. Something came up, and I was detained from my writing for a number of days. Thank you all for your amazing patience, reviews, favorites, and follows;) Enjoy!**

* * *

"Sherlock, are you going to do your deductions on everything I watch this evening? Because it's getting very annoying."

"It's not my fault your entertainment preferences have been so boring John. Even a child could have predicted what would have happened with that table-cloth."

"Listen, I know you don't know much about human nature, or humans in general. But normally people like to be surprised when they watch a movie. Not have every plot, and sub-text told to them... twenty minutes before it occurs."

John exasperately gets up from his chair. "I'm going to make some tea."

"At eleven O'clock at night?"

"It helps ease my headaches," John replies.

* * *

The army doctor walks into the sitting room; toward the flickering light of the telly.

"Sherlock it's four in the morning, why are you up watching... The same movie we watched before going to bed."

"I thought that perhaps I didn't give full attention, and listen more carefully to what was transpiring between the Corman's. So it turns out, the dull plot and the endless looping conversations, are more than I perceived at first, and the plot leaves a rather large portion of unknown factors which add to the mystery."

"Wait a minute...You told me it was, and I quote; A highly idiomatic compiling of an idiots brain cells brought to life on the silver screen... So what? you hate the movie for a few hour's and then come down here and watch it at four in the morning?...Unless... This isn't about the movie at all, you did this because of your gigantic ego, you wanted to see if your deductions were right didn't you?"

"John-"

"Just... Keep it down, some of us have to work tomorrow morning. The army doctor leaves the sitting room and enters his bedroom, shutting the door behind him."

* * *

"Oh, hello Sherlock! Are you here about the ad in the paper?"

"Yes, Mrs. Potterfield. Now, time is of the essence; where are they?"

"I'll fetch them for you right away," She replies.

Mrs. Potterfield soon returns with her hands filled with the precious cargo, and passes the carriers to Sherlock. "Are you sure you want to be doing this? You are the best detective in all of London, and I would hate for you for miss a crime on account of me."

"It's been somewhat of a slow crime wave passing through the city. I'm always happy to help out a friend."

"That's very kind of you Sherlock, thank you. Take care of them!" Mrs. Potterfield shouts as the detective boards a cab, and heads back to the flat.

* * *

"Doctor, will you be going to the convention in Sussex?" doctor Blatly asks.

"No, I'm afraid not, I have my hands full with much more pressing matters."

"Such as our date. You haven't forgotten have you?" Sarah asks.

"Of course not." John says his goodbyes to Sarah, and catches a cab to 221.B

* * *

"Sherlock, i'm home. Did you ever find something to do while I was gone?"

Hearing no answer, the army doctor makes his way upstairs; slowly and quietly in case he was sleeping, or doing a very dangerous experiment. The last time he burst into his room announcing himself, Sherlock nearly lost a toe; so he's learned to be quiet when approaching the detective.

The army doctor makes a successful entry, and as he nears his flatmate, his mind is utterly and completely flabbergasted at the sight.

John doesn't know whether to laugh, or continue watching the strange sight in front of him. Sherlock Holmes is completely surrounded by many cats eating raw fish and a few lying in his lap.

"Sherlock, I know that since you're a sociopath that it's hard to keep girl-friends, and dating isn't your thing, but I still think you should give Janine another try. You're in the prime of your life; you don't need cats to fill your void of loneliness and boredom."

"John, what you just described are the characteristics of a lonely cat lady. I'm not lonely; and I'm certainly not a lady. Mrs. Potter field has had an ad in the paper for over a week now, asking for a babysitter. She is my friend, I was bored, so I graciously accepted... That is all," Sherlock retorts.

"Right...um, So it's Sherlock Holmes babysits cats, not solves a double murder or repossesses an ancient artefact. Interesting headlines."

"So what's with the sushi?" John asks.

"They got hungry."

"What about cat food?"

"I tried that, but they tipped their noses up at it. So I went to the nearby sushi restaurant, and ordered twelve plates of their finest sushi."

"Sherlock, you do know that certain rule about cats?"

"Yes, of course John."

"Then you-"

"Had the fish cooked?...Yes."

"I wasn't even aware we had a sushi restaurant, John says flatly; sitting on the sofa, and petting a striped tabby that just jumped onto his lap."

Sherlock looks at the cat, and then over to John. "Hmm, there's definitely something there."

"What's there?" John asks.

"A resemblance."

...

"Are you saying that I look like a cat?" John asks, looking over to the detectives; now empty chair...

A few minutes later...

"Where did you just go?" the army doctor inquires.

"Nowhere important... Listen, why don't you get ready for your date tonight."

"How?... never mind." John walks into his bedroom and gets ready for his date.

* * *

"Sherlock, did you speak to my girlfriend about our little chat this evening?"

"John, I promise you that haven't spoken a word to her."

"Oh, alright then, how come she asked the waiter for a glass of milk?" I don't drink milk on dates."

"Maybe she was joking."

"Or the other various cat references she used throughout our date? If you didn't tell her who-"

"Oh, no!..." The army doctor's tone lowers. "Please tell me you didn't do what I think you did?"

"That depends on what you think I did, and what I didn't do that you think I did."

John furrows his brow, in a puzzled expression. "What?"

"Never mind I will have to investigate alone." John leaves the sitting room, and soon returns with his laptop grasped in his hand, and slams himself down on the sofa.

"Alright if you didn't speak a word, what's this?"

Sherlock inquisitively makes his way over to John's laptop, and takes a close look at the screen.

The detective soon begins laughing in low baritones.

"You did this."

"Yes, John but you really didn't give me much of a choice; after you wrote to everyone in your blog that time I was succumbed by that sedative the landlady slipped into my tea. Besides, after you pulled that little stunt, I had many fans on my blog asking me to even the score."

John reads the texts aloud...

"John Watson is a cute kitten."

"John whiskers the army doctor."

"Doctor pretty paws."

"This is far worse than what I did to you," John huffs.

"Are you mad? I had people texting me for a month, not about cases, but asking me if I was sleepy," Sherlock huffs.

"Yes, well, don't be surprised if packages of kitty-litter are delivered here. My situation stinks way worse than yours," John finishes.

"John, don't put the words stinks and kitty-litter in the same sentence," Sherlock replies bluntly.

The army doctor looks over at Sherlock, and the two of them can't help but eventually crack up in roars of laughter...

A few moments later...

The army doctor scans the flat. "Sherlock we have another problem. Where are we going to get twelve litter boxes at ten O'clock at night?"

* * *

 **Haha! Doctor pretty pawsXD** _**Thank you for reading;) and sorry again for taking so long, the documents were putting up a fight. Chapter 7 will be out next week, but it might be a tad late. But I won't take as long as I did this time... *gulp***_


	14. Chapter 14: Sweet Dreams

**I don't mean to offend anyone with this chapter. Thank you for bearing with me, one and all :)**

* * *

The moonlight glistened through the flat, casting shadows that morphed into strange silhouettes as they fell upon various objects. A robed figure carefully walked up the steps to the army doctors room. "John, I heard a noise."

There was an immediate scuffling on the other side of the door and it soon opened to reveal the alert, though tired army doctor carrying his firearm. "Where did you hear it? Show me where."

John followed Sherlock's lead down the stairs into the sitting room.

"There. Right there!"

Before he could react, John felt the gun lifted from his possession, and a loud bang sounded, followed by a loud thud and the shattering of glass.

"Sherlock, I told you you're not allowed to be bored at 3 o'clock in the morning," Mrs. Hudson shouted and flipped on the light to reveal two men in their pajamas, with one of them holding a hand-gun towards her favorite lamp, all smashed and broken on the floor, covered by a thin sheet. She whimpered sadly as she made her way to it. "Sherlock, that lamp was an antique." Mrs. Hudson knelt down and lifted the sheet off from the remaining pieces, lightly shaking the glass off before folding it up, and into the closet. "Why did you do a thing like this?"

The detective met the landlady's gaze with a doleful expression. "Forgive me, I thought it was an intruder," Sherlock replied in a low tone. "With the sheet over it, the shape looked like a person."

John was glaring daggers at his flatmate. "Sherlock, give me my gun," John ordered as he flicked out his hand.

The detective exhaled and handed the firearm back to the army doctor, who immediately switched on the safety. "Sherlock this is the fifth night in a row, now spit it out. What's been bothering you?"

"I would prefer not to say, John."

"Who cares what you bloody prefer! It's three in the morning and I'm standing here in my knickers by a broken lamp that was just shot by YOU because you thought it was an intruder."

"I can't John," Sherlock stuttered.

The army doctor sighed and threw up his hands in defeat. "Then we're all going to go to bed, and discuss this in the morning." This was his seventh wake up call, and his patience was worn too thin to take his behavior lightly. If John wasn't going to get the truth out of him, he was going to find another way to find it.

"There's nothing to discuss, John."

The said army doctor froze half way up the stairs before continuing to his bedroom, leaving the detective standing alone in the sitting room.

Sherlock stood there for a few moments, contemplating the army doctors words before he started heading off to his bedroom. However, before he was even half way, he saw a dark lump in his chair and moved closer to investigate.

As he neared the familiar, leather chair, he could see patches of the landlady's hair illumined by the moonlight, and he bent over the her figure, and began gently shaking her. "Mrs. Hudson, that's not your bed, you're still in the sitting room."

"My husband sells camels. I once had the heart of an Iranian jewel thief, " she mumbled.

"Mrs. Hudson… Mrs. Hudson…..Wake up."

After a lot of shaking, and strange names, the landlady's eyes fluttered open.

"Sherlock, what are you doing in my bedroom?"

"I'm not in your bedroom, I'm in the living room, as are you. You fell asleep on the chair you're sitting on."

The landlady gazed down at herself, and then realized that she was indeed, sleeping in a chair in the sitting room. "Oh my, of all the silly things to do," Mrs. Hudson, chided herself and rose up from the chair. Sherlock guided her to her room, before he made it to his own.

Although he would have much rather experimented, the bed was soft and inviting so he just settled for lying there unmoving as his thoughts drifted. "They're not real. They're essentially just candles wearing clothes. Minis the wick of course. You're just going to fall asleep and forget about all this irrational thinking."

The night didn't go by as smoothly as Sherlock hoped, but after an hour or so of tossing and turning, the detective finally managed to fall into a somewhat, restful sleep.

….

"Doctor?.. Doctor."

"Mrph… Y-yes what?"

"You fell asleep on the gurney," replied the feminine voice.

John shuffled to his feet, which sent the gurney wheeling toward a patients door before being stopped by the nurse.

" _Nice catch_ …. Sarah, I have a question."

"Yes?"

"Let's say hypothetically that your son woke you up in the middle of the night, for a week complaining of certain noises. And when you went to check for an intruder, he took his BB gun out of his pocket, and shot a lamp with a sheet over it… What would you do?"

She smiled sweetly... "I would use my army doctor skills and do my best to diagnose the detective to find out what's really scaring him."

John chuckled, weakly. "What gave it all away?"

"Oh, just a hunch… Well, that, and this is the fourth thinly veiled hypothetical that you've told me this week."

"It is?" The army doctor rubbed the back of his head in confusion.

Sarah just smiled sadly… "Why don't you go home for the day and get some rest. I'll cover for you, okay?"

John sighed and nodded… The lack of sleep from the constant interruptions at night was affecting his life. Even his soldier training was useless and they were vulnerable to any attacks from criminals and terrorists alike. This had to be dealt with before someone tipped Moriarty off about his vulnerability.

Maybe he wasn't going to go home just yet, there was one other place that he needed to go first to sort this matter out.

….

"John what a pleasant-"

The army doctor slumped as he walked inside the room, his eyes held enormous bags under them and were blood red from sleep deprivation. This was a level of complete exhaustion, and only his will power and training as a soldier made it possible for him to be standing.

The army doctor nearly tripped over the chair as he sat down.

"John, you look positively dreadful. What exactly has my brother been doing to you this past week that would warrant such extremity?" Mycroft questioned.

"Mycroft, it's a disaster. Both me and Mrs. Hudson has had our sleep disturbed every night for a week straight, by him. I've never seen him this restless before. He's been complaining about noises… and just last night, he shot Mrs. Hudson's lamp because he thought it was an intruder. I've tried reasoning with him, but he won't tell me what's frightening him." John was surprised at how much energy he was able to expel, without losing motor function.

"So you've come to the big brother again. This runs deeper than a simple fear. Are there any unusual places that you went last week?"

John thought back to the time when he first noticed the detectives inept actions. "Besides, Barts, the fish shack, and the police station, we did do a case in a wax museum. But Sherlock acted normal the entire time. That is, as close to the narrative of normal that he can be, anyway."

Mycrofts face was drained of color in an instant, but returned soon after. "There's your answer. I don't like bringing this up, but Sherlock used to be terrified of wax museums. That case last week must have rekindled an old childhood trauma."

John lifted a curious brow. He could fill the Encyclopædia Britannica with the things that he didn't know about the Holmes brothers. "Childhood trauma?"

"Yes, although, at the time I had no idea it would make such a big impact on him."

John narrowed his eyes. "What, happened Mycroft?"

He spent the next ten minutes explaining the incident to the army doctor, who offered expressions of shock and anger throughout, and when Mycroft finished, he simply folded his hands and dropped his head.

"You locked your brother in a wax museum?" John exclaimed. "How could you do something like that?"

"Yes, but it is not something that I'm proud of," Mycroft replied.

John sighed. "What do you recommend I do to get Sherlock out of this mindset?"

"That is something you'll have to figure out I'm afraid, I was never able to fix the injury that I caused." Mycroft lamented and stared down at his hands resting on the table, too ashamed to look up at the army doctor.

"Thank you for your time Mycroft," John replied as he let himself out.

A slight chill penetrated through the layers of clothing, causing him to pull his over-coat in tighter to his body to preserve what little heat that he possessed as he stood on the street corner; waiting for a cab. _How was he going to get Sherlock out of the mire that he dug himself into?_ Nothing this substantial had ever happened before. If John didn't know better, he would have thought that the detective was scared of nothing, or if he did have a few phobias, Sherlock was exemplary at hiding them from him.

Just as the thought grazed his mind, the army doctor caught sight of the solution, and he waved his arm for a cab.

…

The door handle turned slowly as it made a complete revolution around, and the wood separated from the metal as it was pushed open. Purposeful footsteps drummed against the flooring while being dampened by something dragged across the wood, and then dropped from a certain height until it landed on something beneath.

"It almost isn't worth it."

The growl of a zipper, and unhappy scuffling noises were all that filled the flat until silence took over again.

An unprecedented amount of time later…

….

Sherlock sat slumped over his microscope, kneading a silk thread with two needles as he stretched and pulled at the the individul threads to reveal more of the center strands, while keeping the magnification on its highest level. The structure was miscellaneous enough as to not provoke boredom, but it held no real answers to the case at hand. Perhaps this was one of those cases that had to be solved in a longer length of time.

Seeing as though he was surrounded by dead ends, the detective put aside the specimen, and made his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Along the way, he passed what appeared to be a client standing against the wall. "I apologize for my unprofessional appearance. Mrs. Hudson failed to mention that I had a client. I will be with you in a moment, just let me put on some tea." A tray with two teacups was soon set on the counter, and boiling liquid filled each of them, colored with a reddish pigment.

With tentative care, Sherlock carried the tray into the sitting room and set it on the coffee table.

"Now, what seems to be the-"

There were certain characteristics about the clients appearence that caught his eye. The detective set his cup down and walked over to get a closer look. He snorted. "John, why are you dressed like a cowboy?"

There was a small click, before a twangy, gruff voice began to give a biography of John Wayne, before ending in a cowboy call. The army doctor tried to stay as still as stone, as to add a level of realism to his very strange act. But, John couldn't help the small smirk that made its presence known as he saw the detective sporting a similar expression.

Sherlock stared him over, completely baffled as to why his doctor friend was wearing vintage, Wester clothing and cowboy boots, topped off with a tan hat, a jacket, and a white bandana around his neck.

"For you, Sherlock. This entire ridiculous act, is for you."

"John, how on earth is dressing like a cowboy, doing me any favors?" Sherlock said through watery eyes.

"Because you won't be hypnotized, we have to do this the hard way." John replied, envisioning the problems with taking his flatmate to the last hypnotist. "

"To be hypnotized, one has to be of weak will and mind. I possess neither of those qualities, which is why it didn't work on me the last time."

"Don't remind me. The image of him frolicking while clucking like a chicken is still fresh in my mind," John snickered.

"This image isn't exactly fading, either," Sherlock snorted, which soon turned into hardy laughter between the two of them.

After the amusement had subsided some, John placed a solemn hand on the detectives shoulder. "Sherlock, as your best friend, what happened to make you so afraid?"

Sherlock sighed, a sound that was so unguarded and vulnerable that John terribly wanted to rip off that cowboy outfit and wrap a blanket around him right then and there.

The detective began.

"I was six years old. One halloween night, I was dared into a run-down wax museum. I found the whole idea to be rubbish, but the concept of being thought of as a coward wasn't appealing. So I entered and explored what I could for the allotted time that was required. But, when the time came to walk out, I discovered that I was locked in. Naturally, I screamed for my brother and banged on the door until I couldn't feel my hands. And when that didn't work I tried to find a way to escape, but every exit was rusted shut due to the age of the building and obvious water damage. Finally, when I had exhausted all my options, I tore off a few clothes from the wax figures, and made a small bed for the night. All the while, hoping that my brother was running for help, and wondering if I would ever see my family again, or if I would die in such a dismal place. But before I fell completely asleep, I heard the front door creak open to reveal my brother standing in the doorway, dripping wet and covered from head to toe in mud."

"W- was it raining?" John stuttered. He hadn't expected to become so emotionally invested in the story, in which the heart-breaking content exceeded his expectations.

"No. Mycroft said that the keys were thrown into the stream, and he had to dig around for them in the dark in order to get me out." He inhaled deeply. "So, this is why you're dressed up as, John rain?"

John sighed… "Sherlock, you and names… You can remember every street intersection in London, but you can't remember a simple name. That astounds me." He paused, and softened his tone. "Yes, and it worked." John frowned slightly, Sherlock's story still fresh in his mind.

Sherlock met his gaze. "So, is it army doctor, slash cowboy, or are you going to change out of those clothes."

It was at this point that John was intent on getting all of his money's worth. "Well, I don't know partner. I have 700 head of cattle to herd in a few hours, sonny. I'm gonna need my clothes to do it."

"John, you can't pull off a Western accent," Sherlock chuckled.

"I know. But it made you laugh." With that, John headed up the stairs to his room. But before he made it to his door, he heard his name called, and turned around to face the detective.

"I don't forget the names that matter to me, John Hamish Watson."

The army doctor smiled warmly and then climbed up the remaining steps to his room.


	15. Chapter 15: Crawling, Trouble!

**Thank you very much for all the feedback, follows and favorites i've received :D It brightens day to know that you're enjoying these fragments of gaiety.**

 **Food for thought: The Genetic Code is something mankind should Never tamper with. Enjoy!**

* * *

"What do you mean you lost it? How do you lose something like that?" John scolded while overturning a rug in the detectives room.

"I just did, John," Sherlock huffed, staring at the open, empty cage on his desk. It was inconceivable for the creature to escape. The cage had been locked and there were absolutely no holes in the wiring. It was impossible. But escape it did, breaking the bounds of nature.

"Tell me exactly what you did last night."

Sherlock explained his recent activity of the night before, to his flatmate, but nothing that he spoke of eluded the answers to their questions.

John sighed. "Then if that's all you did, how did the cage get opened?"

The detectives mouth was agape, neurons firing and sending signals to the whole of his brain, causing an epiphany. "My cell experimentation and the sample of tinctured flies must have been mixed up before hand. I used the wrong experiment on the creature."

John blinked in confusion as to how Sherlock arrived at that conclusion so quickly, but he kept quiet about it, coming to a conclusion of his own. "Mrs. Hudson. She must have cleaned your desk while we were working on that case yesterday." John face-palmed, remembering the warning that the tribal chief gave to him. "You mean to tell me that we have a genetically modified insect loose in the flat?"

"Yes, i'm afraid that's exactly what i'm saying. But there's something worse..."

The army doctor's eyes narrowed in exasperation before he briefly shut them. "What is it?"

"I don't know what affects the tincture had on the organism."

"So, what you're saying is we could be hunting something potentially fatal or harmless? Fantastic! I knew this week wouldn't go by without a bump." John fell back into a chair and crossed his legs. "That would explain how it learned how to open its own cage, and why we can't find it now."

"Yes, you're good at stating the obvious, John, I'm glad we got that settled," Sherlock remarked sarcastically and flipped over on his stomach to check underneath the bed.

John snickered as he saw the detectives hair sweep the floor as he searched. Mrs. Hudson might not have to sweep in his room, after all.

Minutes ticked by before Sherlock suddenly sprang up, his hair slowly descending down to his head, causing it fuzz at awkward angles, as it hovered above his head. "There are absolutely no places for a bug to hide under there. We need to search somewhere else."

Before John could reply, the detective stood up and ran into the sitting room.

The door bell rang.

Mrs. Hudson hurried through the sitting room, the steam from the kitchen billowed around her and left a trail as she made her way to the front door. When she opened it, a tall gentleman greeted her, dressed in casual attire, a placid grin etched on his face. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Is Sherlock in?"

"Yes, he seems to be busy with something right now, but you're more than welcome to come in and wait." She passed off a friendly smile before offering to take his coat.

"Don't mind if I do."

Quite a scene befell the visitor as he entered.

There, high atop an old Grandfather Clock, was Scotland Yard's finest detective, his legs were held by Bart's best surgeon, and they were shouting and scrambling for something in a fury. 'Every visit was always a surprise.' The visitor remarked silently as he watched the escapade. Although, not everyone was as keen on watching things unfold.

A high pitched shriek rang throughout the flat, followed by the crashing of marble to the ground.

"What in the bloody hell are you two doing? My clock, my bust. You're both carrying on like mad monkeys!" The landlady swept up the pieces of William Churchill's marble head, giving the boys a glare that promised only unpleasant happenings if they didn't climb down that instant.

The detective and the doctor both hastily climbed down, trying not to step on each other as they did so.

After Sherlock's feet touched the floor, he brushed off the dust from his clothes, ignoring the discontented huffs from their landlady, and turned behind him. "Lestrade, you must be here for your overcoat. I've got it right here." Sherlock fetched the inspector's coat off a hanger in the closet, bringing it to him."

"Thank you. Did you find anything on it?" He asked.

"No, all the test came back negative," Sherlock replied.

Lestrade pulled on his coat, folding the collar back down to it's proper place. He spoke, facing away from them. "Before I go, mind telling me why you were on top of that clock?"

John and Sherlock gave each other knowing glances, realizing that they couldn't tell him for fear of starting a panic. "We were searching for finger prints. My finger prints. It was just a small bet we made," John skillfully replied, hoping it would appease the inspector.

"Then may the best man win. Good day, gentlemen, Mrs. Hudson." Lestrade nodded once to each of them, before walking out the door.

"Who ever wins this bet, is buying me a new bust," the landlady quipped, dumping the marble pieces in the trash.

Sherlock sniffed the air repugnantly. "Something's burning."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes went wide. "The biscuits!" She cried, and ran to the kitchen.

Seeing that they were alone, John turned to his flatmate, furrowing his brows. "Maybe we're doing this all wrong? We don't need to smoke out the enemy. We need to let the enemy come to us."

Sherlock pressed his knuckles to his lips. "You do understand that it's an artificially intelligent enemy? It has outsmarted even me, and that's a rarity in itself. How is sitting around going to solve anything?"

John said nothing and only plopped down in his chair in the sitting room, keeping his eyes fixated on as many rooms as he could. If they had any chance in catching it, they had to think like the enemy; Something that served him well in his time as a soldier in Afghanistan. He was convinced that if they remained still and kept their patience sharp, the mission, so to speak, would be successful.

Sherlock shrugged and begrudgingly sat down, abhorring the idea of doing nothing. It was incredibly boring, to do nothing. But five seconds later— "John, how long is this going to take? I'm bored."

It could have been the mercy of the universe, or just a coincidence, but Sherlock's phone rang. With quick hands, the detective dug it out of his pocket and placed it to his ear. High pitched shrieks of fright, as well as deeper screams and scuffling were heard in the background before a hoarse, voice answered.

"Sherlock, this is Lestrade. You better come here quick! The police station is overrun by an insect from hell itself." Several frightened screams followed, then the inspector hung up.

Sherlock jumped out the chair so fast that he created a breeze that knocked off a few papers lying on the edge of the coffee table, including discombobulating John for a brief moment, before he collected himself and rose to fetch his medical supplies and a coat. Sherlock was never one for sitting still and doing nothing. John was convinced his flatmate would have made a terrible solider, in that _aspect._ He entertained himself with the notion as he got ready.

* * *

Files were strewn about on the floor, chairs with missing legs; which must have served as an weapon of some sort, were toppled over. An unmistakable residue of blood covering the sharp corner of a file clerk's desk, came into view as they walked on through the dead chaos.

Sherlock directed his gaze towards the policemen and saw the victim was a woman with a small gash on the left side of her forehead, pinned fearfully against the far wall with the other members of Scotland yard, too mortified to move as they stared upward at...

The army doctor glanced down at his flatmate who was completely enraptured for the moment by a strange, blue stain on the floor, and sighed. It appeared it was up to him to search out the focal point of their gazes. John raised his vision towards the two beams.

A giant ten foot spider web was weaved between the two support beams, the same amount of distance apart as the web, baring a thickness to the likes of which he'd never seen an insect achieve. There was a strange noise emitting from somewhere in the vast entanglement of what looked to be silk webbing, but he couldn't be sure anymore. Its oscillating clicks didn't match the creature that they brought home from the amazon; but instead, were the pace and loudness of a machine gun firing in the highest speed setting; which John knew the sound of, all too _well._

"The spider's genetic structure must have tried to shift back and couldn't, so nature tried to compensate by increasing its natural abilities, making them 100 times more resilient against the imaginative enemies that it's body now thinks it has."

John was already facing Sherlock, previously sensing his presence near him before he spoke. "Because of the abrupt modification. Great, how do we trap it?"

"It's built a fortress around itself to keep safe." Sherlock pointed at the structure, before continuing. "Those fibers can't be cut by any normal substance, so we'll have to create an entirely new alkaline acidity from scratch or it won't be able to eat through the strands. Incredible!"

The detectives sudden outburst of fascination, startled the huddled corner of England's finest, and they moved in tighter to the wall. John turned toward them. "Don't worry, it's just a spider. Now act like real policemen and assist with helping us?"

One of the injured women came forward, . "Yeah, right it's just a spider. I don't believe that for a second, considering i've shot, burned and stabbed it! And you're telling me that something like that is just a spider? You're lying."

"Yeah," they all echoed.

"You don't even know what it's capable of. You're just guessing." One of the men said. "It jumped to every door we tried to flee to."

John let out a breath of air. It very well could be very dangerous. After all, it was remarkably resilient, if the methods they described didn't kill it. "Where's Lestrade?"

"He's getting Animal Control here. He's the only one of us that made it out before..."

"Yes, it must have been awful and terrifying. I understand that you've never face an enemy that can withstand your means of protection, but we have a way to capture it. Sherlock is going to create an entirely new alkaline solution that will eat through the strands so we can capture it.

Before anyone could reply, Sherlock whirled around to the army doctor. "John, go to Bart's and grab every alkaline chemical that you can fit into..." The detective slide out a drawer from a nearby file cabinet and shook its contents out onto a desk before handing it to the army doctor. "This drawer. I'm going to remain here to monitor its growth."

John nodded, then left the police station.

The army doctor came back to the station within a half an hour, setting a drawer full of chemicals and supplies down on one of the desks. Molly was with him and walked closely behind, wearily staring up at the stringy structure.

"Ah, good. You brought Molly. This task will need two competent people to complete it," Sherlock said.

Molly smiled at Sherlock's words, feeling a small relief from the unsettling fear as she unloaded the supplies onto the desk.

"I also bought a new cage. The bars on this one are made of pure steel." John pulled out the cage from the protective covering and placed it by the drawer.

"Then we have everything we need to start." The detective and the pathologist nodded once to each-other before gloving up, and began the process that had taken the finest chemists many years to find, let alone, several more to perfect.

...

Finally, after many hours of trying combination after combination, they didn't find a new alkaline acidity. Such a thing would have been an impossible feat for their small time frame. Instead, they succeeded in making an existing one, stronger. So much so, that if a drop of the substance fell onto the floor, it would've ate through the concrete. Which of course made the army doctor the perfect candidate to climb up the ladder— because of his steady hand from years of surgeries.

The detective turned to Molly who was gripping the handle of a broom, ready to sweep the spider into the cage; whose door was held open by Sherlock. The two of them fixed their eyes to John decisively climbing the ladder, a beaker of deep purple acid held tightly in his hand.

When he arrived at the top, John carefully poured the substance over the mass of webs and waited with baited breath.

Almost immediately, the strands began to sizzle, emitting white smoke that dispersed quickly in the air, before snapping. "It's working!"

Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief at the news, including the policemen who were beginning to back away from the corner.

The fortress of webs broke away revealing a softball sized spider resting on the last few strands of its creation. "Molly, hand me the broom," John whispered.

John reached down to grab the broom from the pathologist and lowered it under the spider's resting threads. The insect hesitantly walked onto the broom fibers.

Without warning, near the top step the army doctor's foot cought a section of the ladder, tipping him off balance. But thankfully, he regained his balance quickly.

"John it's-"

"Yes... I know." John shakily replied. Afghanistan was home to many different breeds of Spiders, including the largest, Camel Spiders. So, the army doctor wasn't as squeamish when it came to accidental contact with giant insects. But whether the one currently resting on his head with it's long harry legs scraping against his scalp, was poisonous, was unknown to him, which added to an already high level of panic that he tried to push down.

John sucked in a breath and swallowed, closing his eyes as he steeled his mind from eliciting panicked movements. He kept on moving carefully down the ladder, trying to stifle the urge to rip the thing out of his hair. When he made it to the floor, he urgently motioned for the cage.

Sherlock and Molly subtly approached John, the cage door wide open with a Spider's Delight consisting of dead flies on a small dish. The insect clicked with curiosity as it tentatively shuffled forward on John's head, causing him to squeeze his eyes shut.

No one dared to make a noise as they watched the scene unfold. Especially, John.

Finally, after a moment of decision it leapt into the cage. Sherlock slammed the cage door shut, chuckling softly. "Good we got this matter sorted out."

"John, are you alright?" Molly asked, resting a comforting hand on his arm.

The army doctor exhaled in relief, breathing deeply through his nose as he tried to still his rabid heartbeat. "... Yes. Thank you, Molly." John scowled at the detective quietly snickering as he packed all the supplies away into the black duffle he found by the camera equipment. There would be some uncomfortable events in Sherlock's future for putting them all through this, but especially because he was now laughing at him.

Molly smiled gently. "What ever Sherlock says, that was a very brave thing you did."

The pathologist shook her head at the detective, who stifled his laughter abruptly as he saw her expression heat to one of anger. She snatched the duffle out of his hand and left the room without a single word.

After Molly left, the army doctor turned toward the wall where Scotland Yard was... gone. Everyone was gone except for Sherlock who was getting on his last nerve with his incessant laughter.

"They ran out the door as soon as it jumped on you," Sherlock spoke, his voice tight with amusement.

John scowled. Damn, he was clueless. The situation was very dire in many different ways and all the detective could do was make fun of him. "Well, at least they didn't bloody laugh at me," he replied sharply, before whirling around towards the exit door. "I'll be taking my own cab." The army doctor stormed out of the station.

* * *

 **A/N: There will be few and mostly far between chapters where I leave it on a sour note, but sometimes it needs to be done. The lateness of this chapter was most unfortunate; something that i've been trying very hard to fix. You are rest assured, that the next chapter will arrive as quickly as possible, and what's even better, is with all this time I have thought of loads more ideas for chapters :D I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much, if not more so than I did writing it. ^_^ Feel free to review :)**


	16. Chapter 16: ?

_A/N: Seriously, you guys are awesome! A Big Thank You to every single one of you readers for all the support, and for reading! Now, I messaged you guys, but I'll also state here for those of you I couldn't reach, that I changed my username from The Science Of Deduction-SH to The Science of Deduction- SH. (It has a better presence.)_

 _I have the creator of John Watson_ _irish breakfast, cinnamon, earl grey green tea,_ _Cara McGee and the company adagio teas to thank for letting me mention their product here. So I also give a Big thank you to them! Lastly, this chapter took a while for a few reasons, and one of them is because it's over... 6k words long. Enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 16: The Introspection of Sherlock Holmes

-SH-

After setting the remaining bag of ingredients down at the desk in his room, Sherlock went into the kitchen and set to making a fresh pot of tea. John had stormed out in a fluster a few days prior and left the detective to fix the spider's chemical alignment and to later travel back to the rainforest by plane to give the arachnid back to the chief.

Since when was laughing a crime? None of them knew that the spider was even poisonous or not. Judging from its timid behavior, there was a good chance it was harmless. So in retrospect, the army doctor had nothing to fear, even if it was on his head. In Sherlock's mind, there was no reason to be touchy about him finding humor in John's reactions.

But there was something to the way John stormed out of the station. The stern glower he showed him, the flash of hurt in his eyes that he caught before he completely turned away. It made him feel... _remorseful_. Yes, that was the word. A deep painful regret for wrongdoing. There was once a time where Sherlock thought himself the most unlikely of characters to ever be normal, to feel as _ordinary_ people feel. But now he was sitting in an empty flat, pondering his flatmate's feelings. Pondering John's feelings, his best friend and the hurt that he caused him by being so clueless and unfeeling. The gods of fate must've been laughing at him.

Pouring a cup of the freshly brewed tea, the detective collapsed tiredly onto the sofa. The journey back had worn him out considerably and he was just now beginning to experience its full effects. Sherlock watched the steam rising off the surface of the hot liquid in sleep-inducing, wispy swirls. He felt the heat of the cup warm his tepid hands and tasted the bittersweet tang of cranberry as it flowed over his tongue. If it weren't for his incredible willpower, the detective was convinced he would've already fallen into a peaceful stupor.

Of course, coming from his experience, it was best not to fall asleep with hot tea in your hand or you either burn yourself or ruin vital equipment. Regrettably, that sort of thing happened once. But only once. That fact may have also been keeping him awake, since he hadn't parted with the mug yet.

Fighting to keep his eyes open, Sherlock decidedly set the mug down and pulled out his phone to check his messages. Scrolling past his brother's messages with an eye-roll, he came the ones that he'd sent John after getting off the plane. They still had no replies. "Come on, John," Sherlock muttered as if he were in the room listening. He half wished he were. The illogical part of him, anyway.

I'm back from the rainforest. Reply when you get this. SH

Once done, Sherlock glanced at the clock on the wall. The detective remembered John talking him into putting it over his yellow painted smiley face he'd painted on the wall above the sofa, making the point that it was better for his professional image for the clients not to see a child's drawing when they entered.

For the most part, Sherlock had listened and kept the arrangement some of the time. But other times he would remove it to spite the army doctor, or shoot his _grim_ creation full of more bullets.

Sherlock removed his gaze from the clock with a melancholic half-smile. Seeing as though his flatmate was still working his shift at the hospital, he'd give him until half-past-four to respond; then other precautionary measures were going to be taken.

Sherlock returned his phone back to its resting place in his pocket and resumed sipping his tea. He had to admit that the flat was incredibly quiet without John there to make his untimely conversation, almost too quiet. Strangely though, it wasn't a lonely quiet, as it was more of an uneasy quiet. There was no logic in this feeling, but no matter what his knowledgeable mind screamed, he still felt the hair on his arms stand up.

Someone was watching him. The detective could sense it now. It was as if the walls themselves had eyes. But there was no logic to that thought either. He hadn't seen John for three days, so perhaps his brain was just playing tricks, making up allusions to suit his desires.

Sherlock's phone suddenly buzzed, causing him to barely flinch as a single text displayed on the screen:

I see that you're home alone. JM

Sherlock smirked and quickly picked up the phone to fire off a reply. Finally something else to occupy him other than his consuming thoughts.

Where are you? SH

I'm in the walls, i'm in the floor and ceiling. I live in the air. What am I? JM

That one was meant to be _easy._

Matter. SH

That is true, but the correct answer is dust. You are nothing but dust underneath my feet at this moment, Sherlock. JM

Here's another one, sexy. What has a short blond hair, has a history of military service, and shares a flat with you? JM

It couldn't be true. Mycroft would've contacted him immediately if that were the case.

You don't have him. There's nothing that a narcissistic psychopath like you can gain from it. SH

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but they can't really hurt me. JM

It was a front. A ploy. But even so, there were still several more hours before John returned home. He needed to put his mind at ease. If Moriarty actually had the army doctor, he was going to give him the necessary information to find him, out of experience.

On the off chance that you're telling the truth, tell me what you did with John? SH

Relax, all I did was drop him into boiling water. JM

No! Sherlock refused to believe that Moriarty would kill John in such a manner. Or kill him at all. The criminal always did things with a purpose and killing John couldn't possibly give him any leverage. Not to mention it was one of the most unintelligent methods of death. No. In his experience, Moriarty always had a tendency to aim high.

Though, even with reasoning on his side, Sherlock still felt his fingers shake slightly as he typed.

I don't believe you. Killing someone so carelessly is hardly your style. Show me proof.- SH

Are you sure about that? The camera adds ten pounds, and Johnny boy, here, already isn't looking so good. JM

Proof. SH

Several painful minutes later without a response, Sherlock's phone beeped and displayed a photo of Moriarty smiling playfully, holding a steaming cup with a tea bag hanging off the rim, and John Watson irish breakfast, cinnamon, and earl grey green tea box with a pencil drawing of the army doctor, next to his smug face.

Gotcha! JM

I knew all along. SH

Sherlock took a moment to collect himself. He now knew that John wasn't in the hands of his nemesis' depraved mind. That gave him breathing room, and he now had a chance to deceptively interrogate Moriarty.

But as much as Sherlock despised dancing for him, he was going to have to play along for a while in order to figure out Moriarty's next scheme. That was his weakness. If Sherlock gave him the victory of the battle, then Moriarty would overstep himself and make a careless mistake. Then Sherlock would win the war.

On cue, his phone rang, displaying an unknown caller. He answered.

Morirty spoke in a demeaning, sing-song tone. "Because?"

"Again, I'm not telling you what you already know," Sherlock replied.

"Just... _indulge_ me."

"You and I both know that it's not always boredom that compels you, but the allurement of the victory, of finally beating me. Jim Moriarty isn't interested in using John as anything except as a pressure point. My pressure point. But you won't stop there. To get to the king you need the right commands to give to your people. The right strategy to vanquish your enemy. But most importantly, you need a purpose."

"Very good, because?"

"Because that is what fuels both of us. Because at this very moment, you're plotting something. Something new, something that you'll need John alive for to complete the puzzle, because without him you know I won't play your game," Sherlock finished at a level tone, adding to the emphases of his last words.

"But to be fair, I liked your skull better... it didn't talk. I'll be seeing you again, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged and moved his body so he was lying horizontally on the sofa, his head resting on a pillow. At least with John being gone he couldn't possibly tell his blog followers that he's going to take a nap, or taking a nap again, anyway. But that thought didn't give the detective any solace as he drifted off.—For his mind was on the safety of his _dear_ friend, John Watson.

...

It didn't take long for the detective to fall asleep. The flight back had apparently zapped him of more energy than he previously thought, so replenishing it had been in order even if he would rather have stayed awake. His hard-drive never did work _smoothly_ on depleted charge.

Eventually though, the chime of the 6th hour woke him up a few hours later.

Rising from the sofa, Sherlock headed to the closet and grabbed his coat and scarf, putting them on before promptly leaving the flat.

Once outside, Sherlock breathed in the cold evening air of London, flushing his lungs of the warm, stale air of the flat. Mrs. Hudson would be back later that night to do her nightly duties, so they should be able to return home before then. He hailed a cab.

* * *

The detective hastily made his way throughout the hospital, the front desk well within his sights. But not exactly a 'careful way' as he had to spin out of the way to prevent hitting an impeding gurney with a patient strapped to it as it was wheeled into the elevator. But there was no time to stop and give apologies. He needed to find John.

The detective scanned the hospital, his mind was only on John and his well-being. Since he didn't return to the flat after the allotted time he was due, the detective was becoming very concerned if the army doctor had complications coming home.

Though, not long after their first case, John annoyingly broached the subject of a doctor's duties to the detective after seeing how worked up he'd gotten after the first late entry. Well, worked up was a vague term, considering he'd sent Mycroft and the whole of Scotland Yard on his trail; only to find out afterwords that his flatmate had been setting up breathing equipment for an elderly woman with heart-trouble.

Even though it was very embarrassing, unknown to Sherlock, John found the whole affair to be very endearing that he went to such great lengths to find him. And for the first time since he'd met the detective, John began to realize how human, Sherlock could be. It was an enlightening experience for both of them.

While he was nearing the front desk, Sherlock was bombarded with the horrid picture of John tied to the Tower of London with explosives strapped to his chest. That sort of display wasn't below Moriarty in the slightest. "I'm coming, John," Sherlock spoke quickly as he ran the remaining distance to the front desk.

"Has a Dr. John H. Watson clocked out?" Sherlock blurted out impatiently, drumming his fingers like a humming bird on the Receptionist's desk.

The nurse quickly searched through the attendants charts on her computer, Seeing his anxiety. "No, as a matter of fact he hasn't. It says here that he was scheduled for surgery six hours ago."

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes, feeling a sudden flood of relief seep into him at those words. John was here, he was just in the middle of a surgery and couldn't have come home of his own accord. John was safe. Moriarty had yet to take his _heart_ ; though the detective was still overshadowed by a certain hard truth. There would come a day where his nemesis was going to try again. It might not be today, or the week, month, or year after, but it would happen, none-the-less.

Moriarty was always out to destroy him, such a thing hadn't been a secret to any of them, and he even told him so while they were playing chess one time.

 _It was the first innocent years of their companionship. Sherlock was a wide-eyed, ambitious 20-year old consulting detective, and Moriarty was a slightly more experienced 30-year old Scotland Yard detective. Both were exceptional at their jobs and even partnered on a few cases. In short, they became fast friends and shared their love of deduction for many years. Agent Donovan never quite warmed up to him the way the others did. Moriarty was too strange of a character for her to trust, got bored far too easily just like Sherlock.— Whom she also didn't trust._

 _But as the years grew on, Moriarty began to exhibit signs of extreme boredom; such as lengthly visits to the pub and isolation from his job for sometimes months at a time. His many bazaar hobbies perturbed the Yard to the point of nearly taking him into custody._

 _It was during this time that Moriarty began to confide in Sherlock, the only detective he could trust, telling him the darkest thoughts and desires of his depraved mind over a usual game of chess. — His desires to make crime, rather than solve its origins._

 _"You know, I don't prefer the divide-and-conquer method, it's tedious and a waste of time. I prefer finding a way to lance to the king's heart by picking off all surrounding pieces that can protect him and give him sanctuary, then entrapping him in an impenetrable wall with my soldiers so he has no means to escape. And finally... Check mate."_

"Sir, are you lost?"

Sherlock snapped back to the present, the glass laminated chess board along with Moriarty, was gone, and in their place was a bustling hospital coming back to him in full color. The detective turned on his heels towards the waiting doctor with the quizzical expression on his face, his calculating eyes moving over his visage. "No, I was just very deep in thought."

"I take it you're waiting for someone then?" The doctor inquired.

"Yes, my flatmate doctor John Watson. He should be getting out of surgery any moment now," Sherlock replied, keeping his fingers crossed, so to speak.

"Ah, yes, that army doctor from Afghanistan. He's one of my finest surgeons."

"Yes, that does sound like him," Sherlock smiled, trying to keep it genuine. He missed John far too much to be too happy about anything.

The doctor spared a glance to the wall clock above the admittance desk, then faced Sherlock. "Well, I better be going now, I hope Mr. Watson doesn't keep you waiting for long."

"As do I," Sherlock said before he left through the doors,

After the doctor left, Sherlock decided to spend the rest of his time waiting on the bench, considering it had a clear view of the surgery bay where John was working so it would be impossible to miss the army doctor.

"You're that detective i've seen on tv!" A little girl exclaimed exuberantly.

Sherlock made a hasty exit from his mind palace that honestly left him feeling a bit dizzy, and faced the little 10 year old girl sitting next to him who was currently staring up at him with questioning blue eyes. "Yes, I am."

To the left of the 10-year old girl, Sherlock could see that there was another occupant next to her. There was a certain familiarity about her, possibly an old client of his at one time. She looked to be the girl's 70-year old grandmother. There was too close of a relationship between them for her to be a babysitter, and not the same level of security for her to be the mother, or aunt. It was the girl's grandmother who had likely drove them to the hospital after a minor accident with the girl's brother or sister, going by their lack of anxiety. It if had been a major accident, the two of them would be showing deep signs of anxiousness. The most common being sweating, fidgeting nervously, or chewing on their nails.

"Why are you wearing a scarf?"

And lastly, the children's parents were out of town, considering the piece of paper the old woman was clutching had the children's names and lists of allergenic foods to avoid for each of them, bedtime regimes to follow. The grandmother's hand was cutting off most of the words and numbers, but Sherlock managed to make out two emergency phone numbers and contact information circled in red towards the end of the paper.

"Elice, what have I told you about talking to strangers?" The grandmother chided, but then receded her order as soon as she recognized the stranger was Sherlock Holmes. The same detective who had helped regain their finances from an overseas money launderer posing as a gardener.

Yes, he knew exactly who she was. "It's alright, what you said to your granddaughter should be followed by every mother and father. It would certainly make my job less sporadic," Sherlock finished and turned his attention to the nurse coming up in front of the old woman, a binder tucked under her arm. Judging from the way she was clutching it, she was about to deliver bad news.

"M' am, we have additional paperwork for you to fill out. It's permission for us to operate on your son."

The elderly woman's hands went up to cover her mouth, in shock. "Isn't there another way?" She pressed, her voice slightly quivering.

The nurse shook her head and spoke calmly. "The object is lodged too firmly for us to remove it the conventional method without damaging the surrounding tissue. I assure you it's a very simple and quick procedure."

The woman nodded, coming to terms with the situation. "Who is the doctor performing the surgery on my Jacob?"

"Doctor John Watson," the nurse replied.

Sherlock piped to attention from the little girl examining his scarf, upon hearing his friend's name mentioned. After a six hour surgery, John was going to do yet another one? Perhaps he underestimated how long his flatmate worked and stayed on his feet in these times.

When Sherlock finally refocused on the present once again, the bench was empty except for the little girl, who was looking up at him with those curious blue eyes, once more.

It was then that Sherlock visited her inquiry. "To answer your question; It's an efficient article of clothing that I can make use of in times of need. Plus, the color gives good contrast to the rest of my wardrobe."

Sherlock watched as her eyes moved from the scarf and over to his hands which were pressed together under his chin.

"Are you praying?" she asked.

"No, I was deleting information from my mind palace." Sherlock saw confusion contort the girl's brow, and explained it in simpler detail.

"It's a memory technique where you store all your memories and thoughts in a special place you create in your mind. This place can be a street, or a house, someplace familiar to you. Anything you want. In my case, I use a palace." He winked at her, causing the little girl to shyly curl back into her seat.

Sherlock smiled at this and moved his gaze back over to the door. It was already 8 pm. John had to be coming out soon.

But an hour later, there was still no John. The grandmother had already collected her granddaughter to go visit Jacob, and the bench was beginning to make his arse numb and his back, ache.

Even Sherlock's mind palace was dulling from its ability to distract him from his incendiary thoughts. The hospital was filled with competent doctors, and John deserved to take his leave for the night. This fact was slowly tearing away at his resolve.

But there was another problem that needed addressing. What sort of mood was the army doctor in? Yes, it had been a few days since their row, but John once held a grudge against him for two years. Of course, the circumstances were entirely different, but Afghanistan had hardened the army doctor to act on the slightest impulse on occasion.

Finally, after a long wait, and numbness, John finally walked through the doors wearing his usual attire of a tan sweater vest and dark pants. Finally. ... ...

The taxi ride back to the flat was quiet, filled only with the rumble of the engine and the energetic bustle of the streets. John seemed unnaturally fascinated with certain types of pavement, as his head was bowed down to the view of the cab's tires out the window. "Did you really wait for me for three hours on that bench? You who get so bored when there's no criminal activity that you shoot the walls and dissect body parts where we eat food," John grinned unbelievingly at him.

The ride back wouldn't be entirely silent after all. Sherlock knew by the army doctor's tone of voice, that John wasn't exactly surprised he would wait at the hospital for him, but for so long without a source of _credible_ entertainment. "Yes, I did."

"Well that is... incredible. Really incredible, Sherlock. You must have been bored out of your mind. I can't even.." This was the same detective who couldn't stand being without a case for more than an hour, let alone being bored for a few minutes or he tended to take it out on the walls or cover himself with an alarming number of nicotine patches. There had to be a catch for Sherlock to spend an entire three hours without any means of cerebral stimulation.

"I kept myself vaguely occupied," Sherlock said quietly. "How?"

"By observing what was around me, implanting scenarios with various levels of danger inside the hospital and finding the most direct solutions to eradicate the threats. That little method distracted me for a number of hours."

"Right, well I'm glad you found something to keep your restless mind occupied." John remarked and went back to staring out the window, but this time a little higher towards the passing buildings instead of the pavement.

When the cab came to a stop about ten minutes later, Sherlock payed the cabbie before going to unlock the door while John kept a few feet of distance behind him.

By the time he got the door open, surprisingly, Mrs. Hudson was already standing there to great them, but her face was contorted in fear and grief. Not only that but Sherlock noticed another detail. — All the lights were completely out in the flat.

"Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?" The landlady whined in a low whisper.

Sherlock exchanged an uneasy glance with John before following Mrs. Hudson's lead into the sitting room. A darkened room could've meant they were either robbed, or the power was out. Or the unlikely turn about that Mrs. Hudson had turned the lights off before they got home. Though, either scenario was still pointing to a mysterious question. Why were the lights off at all?

Sherlock and John both expected to be met with a dark room as they walked into the sitting room, but what greeted them was just the opposite. The walls, floor, furniture, practically everything was covered in glowing, blue spots.

"It's all ruined!" The landlady exclaimed frantically.

Sherlock and John were trying their best to keep a straight face for their own safety, but a small snort slipped out from one of them, resulting in a burst of giggles and hearty laughter that continued until the landlady's deeply disappointed expression, sobered them up.

"How can you two laugh about this?"

"Because we know how it happened," John answered. "The invisible ink that Sherlock kept on the desk must've broke somehow after the spider escaped a few days ago, judging that these glowing spots follow an insect-like pattern. While we were asleep, it trailed many places around the flat with that ink on it's legs, causing this to happen."

John turned to the detective. "Although, one detail is a bit fuzzy. I thought this type of ink required a UV light to see it, so how are we able to see the invisible ink without a black light?"

"In most cases that is correct, John," Sherlock answered. "But if another chemical were to blend with the ink, it could change the solvent."

"Alright, enough gawking, you two. Is there any way to fix this?" Mrs. Hudson - desperately inquired.

"Of course there is, a little soap and water will return things back to normal," Sherlock assured and walked over to the sink to squirt some soap on a scrubber, then returned back to them. After all, it had worked for both of them once before with those green socks. Who's to say the outcome would be any different this time?

Although, the changed substance could very well react different to his form of cleaning solution after all.

Bending his knees, Sherlock lowered himself to the floor and began scrubbing a single blue spot. However, after a few minutes of scrubbing, the spot was still there, untouched by the detectives hard work.

"Okay, in my defense, that worked last time," Sherlock said, standing upright again and returning the scrubber back to the sink. Had the spider's altered genetic structure somehow effected the potency of the ink when it made contact to its legs? Yes, that was entirely possible considering the solution was chemical based. Now they needed to find something strong enough to clean it off. That couldn't be too hard.

But it turned out to be extremely hard to find a substance strong enough. Every cleaning solution in flat had no effect on their very large, glowing, problem. Even trying to scrape it off with a strong piece of metal did nothing, and that's when Sherlock resorted to other means...

"Don't you dare, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson cried, holding back the detectives arm.

Sherlock took a deep breath. The only way he was going to solve this problem was if he convinced the landlady that he wouldn't harm anything. Easier said than done when you're holding a very harmful and dangerous tool that could potentially ruin the flooring. He spoke calmly. "Mrs. Hudson, I have had many years of experience with this tool, I know what I am doing." Sherlock looked her in the eye. "I promise you that the floor will be perfectly safe."

The landlady nodded weakly, releasing his arm and backing away. "Alright. I'll leave you to it. I can't watch." Mrs. Hudson left the flat to go to her own until they were done tearing the place to pieces. The whole building was her lively hood. She wasn't just the tenant to 221B, but all the flats in the building. If something were to happen to it, the expenses would be taken out from her savings.

Out if all the flats, 221B had the highest damage rate. _Though, not surprising when a very bored, high-functioning Sociopath and his army doctor live there, she thought to herself as she made her way to her other place of residence._

Sherlock felt the gentle hand of the army doctor's rest on his shoulder and turning to look behind him, he met the inquisitive eyes of John Watson. No doubt his flatmate was working on an ingenious solution to their predicament. Ingenious in the sense of entirely new and unthought of. The man was not stupid by any definition.

"What about the chemical solution that ate through the its web. Wouldn't that work?"

Sherlock smiled at this. It was as he expected. "Very good try John, but I've already found the flaw in that analysis. It turns out that my first hunch was correct. The chemicals mixing with each-other on the spider's legs, has altered the ink in strength as well as possibly many other ways... Oh! We already have the perfect sample right here."

"Erm, perfect what, now?"

Without another word, Sherlock sprinted to his room and brought back the bag of partly-used chemicals he'd used to reverse the genetic mutations of the Tarantula, and set them on the kitchen table. He then set to scrapping off the thin layer of wood underneath a glowing spot on the floor, with a scalpel.

"You just promised Mrs. Hudson that you wouldn't harm the floor!"

Sherlock bowed his hand irritably. "I know I did, but this is the only way I can retrieve a sample of the chemical abnormality to study. I'll think of something to tell her later." The detective had no time to wait for an answer from the army doctor, and resumed cutting into the flooring, ignoring John's disappointed mutterings in the background.

John folded his arms impatiently. "Remember, Sherlock, I'm a doctor, not a witch doctor. Mind if you clue me in?"

Sherlock stopped his movements to look at him incredulously. "Don't you see? If we can find the alteration, there may be a chance of reversing this monstrosity."

John raised his eye brows in surprise as well as confusion. There hadn't been a single case, or time for that matter, where John got to help out with the chemistry portion. It was always either Molly, or the detective worked alone.

"Sherlock, you know you said we, right?" The detective's placid expression was betrayed as soon as the army doctor saw his lips twitch into a slight smirk.

"I'm perfectly aware of what I said," Sherlock replied cooly. "You seriously want my help?"

"Well, since Molly's out of town and my skull doesn't have appendages to hold my beakers, then yes. I'm afraid you'll have to do."

"I'm flattered that you think me above your endoskeletal brain-covering, on the hearth, but my doctoring skills never reached to chemical knowhow further than treating the effects of tear gas and other chemical agents used in the war. I have no idea how to make them.

The detective smiled slightly. "And believe it or not that qualifies you to be my lab partner right now." Sherlock held out a pair of surgical gloves to the army doctor.

John made him linger for a few seconds, thinking the idea over, then snatched the gloves from him. "For the record, I'm a far better flatmate," John remarked, sliding the latex over his hands.

"I know." Sherlock put on the gloves of his own and placed an acid resistant tarp that he dug out from the bottom cabinet, on the table in case of accidents, readying the needed solutions for experimentation.

The two of them got to work to try and create a substance strong enough to eat through all the glowing spots. Sherlock made the solvents and John tested them, even creating a few himself.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"What does a blue thumb mean?"

Sherlock didn't bother himself to tear his gaze from his microscope before answering. "Frostbite. But in this case you accidentally dipped your finger into another chemical. The glove should protect against it."

"And if there's no glove covering it?"

No glove. That was peculiar, and served to move his attention away from his work. "No glove? How can there be no glove?..." The detective trailed off as he saw Johns right thumb completely exposed and a solid color of blue, with torn edges of rubber at the base of it, leading to the intact rubber on his other fingers.

Could that be it? Had John accidentally stumbled on their cure? "John, which chemical did you touch?"

John pointed to a an open container near the back of the table, it's contents appeared to be a dull black. "This one with the faded label while trying to reach for the one beside it."

Sherlock leaned over and stretched out his arm to grab the vial, examining it. "John you've done it!" Sherlock got out a fresh slide and poured a few drops onto the wood sample.

Sherlock turned towards the army doctor. "Now, are you sure your hand hasn't come in contact with any off the other solutions?"

"Yes, it was just the one," John replied vacantly, his mind roving over the ramifications. "What exactly have I done?"

The detective moved away from the microscope to let John see the chain reactions.

John fixated his vision through the lens, watching the blue spot fizz, before it completely disappeared, leaving the sample of chipped wood. "Bloody hell, you mean my accident has solved the alteration?"

"Yes and we haven't a moment to lose. We need to get this all cleaned up before Mrs. Hudson comes back." Sherlock quickly dug through the cabinets and pulled out a bucket and filled it with water, dumping the vial into it. He sloshed the mixture around by tilting it along the rims.

"The water should dilute its potency just enough to rid us of our problem and not damage anything."

John nodded.

The two of them covered themselves in plastic, using mops to wipe the flat clean with their bucket of solution, always kept within reach.

* * *

"Do you think Mrs. Hudson will notice the difference?" John said that as more of a remark than a question.

After they'd cleaned the flat spotless, there was still the matter of a small crater carved out of the flooring. Nothing else would've covered it except the sitting room rug, so he slide it into place over it. And there was a mishap with their coverings.

"I'd say that's a possibility." Sherlock replied with a grin, staring at the five feet of uncovered flooring between the fireplace, and their blue skin.

John lost it right then and there at Sherlock's amused expression and insanely white teeth, and they both erupted into giggles. "You look like a character from Avatar," John wheezed.

"So do you!" Sherlock nearly choked as he spoke, but continued to type away at the keys of his laptop, writing his latest news on his blog. But this post didn't concern the deductions of a case, nor did it concern their hilarious predicament. No, that was special and was going to stay between the two of them.

After spreading news of his return, he pressed the enter key and looked up from his laptop over to John who was staring at the bookshelf with vague interest, obviously failing horribly at keeping his mind occupied. "John."

The army doctor kept his attention glued to the shelf with a half smirk that was twitching, but answered. "Yes?"

"I've been thinking about what happened a few days ago, what I-"

John fixed his eyes on Sherlock, dismissing his words with a small shake of his head. Those words seemed to distract him away the blue skin of the detective, for he just saw him as the Sherlock he'd always been, with normal peach skin. Then the pang of a memory tightened his chest. "No, no. That's all in the past now. It no longer matters."

"Yes, John it does. You see, nearly my whole life I haven't been afraid of anything. I could always explain the fear away, keep myself at a distance from feeling vulnerable. Except of course when I couldn't explain the fear away like with that Dewer's Hollow case as you well remember.

"So the truth is, when I saw you climbing up that ladder, I was terrified. Terrified of losing you. But I regret that I didn't express that emotion." He continued.

"What you did, John was incredibly brave, sacrificial. You knew that anything could've happened and you still willingly climbed up on the ladder and saved us. I shouldn't have laughed; that was rude and insensitive of me and I'm very sorry. I will try to take your feelings into consideration more often."

Sherlock held out his blue hand. "Please accept my apology?"

The army doctor inhaled sharply through his nose. "Wow, that was really- I knew those self-help books were going to make an impact on you."

"I am eternally grateful to them if they help me keep my best friend."

John cleared his throat and stood up, Sherlock following suit. John could see the detective's extremely white calculating eyes working overtime to deduce his actual reason for rising and his brow creasing with uncertainty. John just smiled at this and leaned forward, wrapping him into a hug. "Of course I forgive you, Sherlock."

John saw the man behind the blue skin again. His best friend. And though John never forgot a single apology from Sherlock, he had a feeling this one would stick with him forever, regardless of what ever happened.

"Too long?"

"A bit, yeah."

They both released and sat back down again.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock said with a cough.

"Plastic was an awful idea," John's voice cracked.

* * *

 _A/N: I don't know what I was thinking to write this, but i'm glad of it :D If anyone was wondering, the Chemical Weapons Convention entered into force in 1997, but people still smuggled in weapons of a chemical nature into Afghanistan and other places. I did tread a fine line when I mentioned it, but there's a line, none the less. Anyway, feel free to review as always :)_

 _What characters have you guys been missing in these? I think we need more Mycroft, but what do you think?_


	17. Chapter 17: 72 hours

**Apologies for the lateness of this chapter. I won't be able to keep the two week schedual after all. But I will continue to try to update in two weeks and at the latest shoot for the three week schedual as much as I can. Anyway, thank you for all the support and thank you so very much for reading :) I hope you all have had time to read the behemoth of the last chapter, but if not, that's fine; you don't really need to in order to understand this one. As a request of** bubblecloudz **, this chapter is almost entirely devoted to Lestrade and Sherlock :D Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 17: 72 hours

-SH-

Having already taken hot showers the following morning, Sherlock and John both sat in their respective chairs, wearing bathrobes, bodies scrubbed clean from the remains of the chemical.

The silence was soon broken abruptly by a short grunt.

"Is that my laptop?"

"Yes, and for the record, 221B isn't the most prodigious of passwords."

John let out a breath of air. "How long did it take you?"

"What?"

"We both know that you're a show off, so stop pretending and tell me."

Sherlock looked up from the screen, his lips parting only just. "Five seconds. "

"Jesus! Am I really that abominably bad with pass-codes?"

Sherlock didn't miss a beat before responding. "Yes, but try not to fret too much, John. Your inability to produce anything denoting of a variety or contrastive nature has been many times an advantage that saves precious time when an investigation calls for it."

"So in other words, that's a nice way of saying that my dull imagination has saved you time."

"In a matter of speaking, yes."

"Great. Well, that's just bloody brilliant," John muttered indignantly.

Sherlock smirked.

The Case of the Black Cross

 _A British monk was found raving on his knees inside Saint James the Less Church. On his chest was the insignia of a black cross..._ See my colleague, John Watson's summary of the case.

Finishing the post, Sherlock closed the lid with a soft click and put John's laptop away, grabbing his violin off the far chair positioned in the corner of the room near the hearth. It was strategically placed far enough away from the heat to prevent damaging the instrument, but close enough so that he could reach it without moving too far.

He sat back down again, readying the bow in his fingertips to hover over the instrument as if to play it, but Sherlock soon reclined his arm, looking to John with a glimmer in his eye, which oddly enough didn't narrow down the list of possibilities. John knew, The Look, all too well. The way Sherlock's mouth would curve upward just a few degrees in grim delight, the way his calculating eyes widened slightly and became glassy as if his tear ducts were shedding happy tears for what he was thinking.

"John, Lestrade needs my help with a case, go let him in," Sherlock said, briskly.

John furrowed his brow. The army doctor had to admit he wasn't expecting to hear him say those words and it caught him a little off-guard. "But how do you?"

"Know it's him?" Sherlock finished John's question and kept him in his sights, once more. "Simple. I memorized his walking pattern. Everyone has a distinct way of walking that is unique to them. The way he's walking up the stairs, for starters, he's heavy on the balls of his feet but each foot is hesitantly trailing the other one up the steps. Then there are sudden short bursts of steps interspersed, denoting he has something on his mind. The _painfully_ obvious conclusion, Lestrade never visits unless he needs my help with a case."

Sherlock went about his business of tentatively sliding a stick of rosin over the strings of his bow. The metallic click of the opening door, though completely expected, intercepted Sherlock in revisiting a pressing thought that he temporarily had laid to rest that morning.

The chief of police came sauntering in with a cheerful smile, his shoulders elevated with confidence. John was expecting him to be his usual solemn self, with at least a twinge of disgust for what ever crime that had been committed as well as a sadness for the victim and anyone else associated with the deceased. Usually, he spotted at least one of these in one form or another, but now there was only joy evident in the DI. John found it disturbing that he would be happy. Only Sherlock acted like a kid in a candy store when when there was a murder or some other gruesome happening. It was _wrong._

John tried to read the answer from Sherlock, but he was still sporting that crazed look on his face that would've made any normal person run out of the room. But John wasn't _normal_ in any sense of the word to live with a high-functioning sociopath, and enjoy it. John was fully aware of it.

"She's attached," Sherlock fired off after looking up at the DI for just one second.

Lestrade scoffed as if for a moment he didn't believe him. "What?" But he sobered up just as quickly. His voice lowered in acceptance. "How can you tell?"

"The smudge of lipstick on your cheek. Woman don't usually kiss on the cheek on the seventh date. That and the fact that she discontinued writing her phone number on the receipt in your jacket pocket. You were probably too taken with her to notice."

Lestrade frowned at this but continued on with his reason for visitation. "Anyway, I have-"

"A case. I know." Sherlock fixed his eyes on him. "What is it this time? A murderer with invisible finger prints, a disappearance, no evidence to be found, no obvious cause?" Sherlock was smiling quite widely now.

Lestrade was very nervous now. What he was about to voice was going to be last thing Sherlock wanted to hear. Sherlock had his heart and bored brain set on a case. Lestrade swallowed and glanced at John who seemed equally as nervous before speaking, readying himself to rip the proverbial band-aid off.

"No, it's not-"

Sherlock harshly set his violin down to balance against the chair, producing a small twang from the instrument. He vigorously jumped up from his chair. "Even better, something new! I love new cases!" Sherlock voiced loudly, adding to the apprehensive atmosphere.

Would there ever be a day where he could finish his own sentences without being cut off during his visits? Most likely never, Lestrade silently concluded. "It's not a case at all."

Lestrade moved towards the army doctor, well aware of Sherlock's following gaze keeping careful tabs on him. "John, here, has asked me to keep an eye on you for a few days while he attends a medical convention in Brighton."

Sherlock's eyes widened at the both of them, before squinting in disbelief at the army doctor. "What? No case? There had to have been a case. Lestrade's visits always came with a case. He couldn't have been wrong in his deduction. Finally, the detective let out an indignant laugh.

"Lestrade's going to be my babysitter while you're off attending a convention? John, I think I can handle myself for a few days without someone 'keeping an eye on me,' as you put it." He continued. "I have numerous electric eyes watching me at all times thanks to my _actual_ meddling big brother. But furthermore, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I survived alright before I met you didn't I?"

John lifted up from his seat and neared Sherlock, whispering something to him. " _Survived,_ really is the key word. And I'm not going to take no for an answer this time, Sherlock, you know how you get when you're bored. I don't want to have to worry about you while I'm gone."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John cut him off. "Just... do it for me, please?"

John's pleading voice broke through Sherlock's stubborn resolve and he accepted, though reluctantly. Sherlock wondered if there was anything in the whole world that he would not do for John, but he new the answer already.

...

Lestrade had come back later to the flat after John had said his goodbyes to everyone before leaving for Brighton, but he knew it wasn't empty, housing a high-functioning sociopath within its walls. The countdown of three days had begun.

3:00 p.m

Nearing the sitting room, Lestrade found Sherlock hunched over his microscope examining what appeared to be a frozen decapitated finger. The DI swallowed down the bile that was rising in his throat and moved forwards towards the kitchen. Decapitated body parts were really more of Molly's department.

"Sherlock, I'm gonna go ahead and put on some tea. You know, like John usually does." Lestrade heard the quietest of acknowledgments from the detective, apparently too focused on his task to be interrupted. He set to putting on the kettle.

After the tea was done, he brought the tray of tea over to the coffee table, pleasantly surprised that Sherlock was already seated in his chair when he got there. Lestrade hadn't been looking forward to getting any closer to the appendage in Sherlock's fingers.

Greg handed a cup of tea to Sherlock, which he gratefully accepted. "So how did it go with that specimen you were just examining?"

"You're a detective, you tell me?" Sherlock took a sip.

Was Sherlock asking the DI to deduce him? In the whole stretch of time that they've known each-other, it was always about the next case, never about anything else. It was out of character, to say the least. Still, turning the challenge down was definitely out of the question.

Lestrade pressed his lips together and roved his gaze over him, studying the detective. He then did the unexpected and walked over to Sherlock, lifting his hands to examine them.

Sherlock kept his composure all through the DI's examination, not giving any hints to aid him.

Lestrade began: "Alright. Well there's nothing very revealing about your demeanor but there is a a new characteristic on your personage. A few water droplets on your right knuckle, but your left hand is completely dry. People normally wash both hands when they use the sink, but you didn't use the kitchen sink; I would have seen you otherwise since I was a few inches from it making tea. You also didn't use the sink in the loo because you would have probably dried your hands, and even if you didn't or didn't fully, your skin would still be moist where the water had contact in a much larger area than just on one knuckle, but it's completely dry."

"So not water, ice probably, that melted into water. I know for a fact that you keep your experiments either in the fridge or the freezer, but since only one has ice, it's the freezer. You usually throw away your specimens after they've outlived their use, but the melted ice on your knuckle tells me that you kept this one because it yielded positive results a few minutes ago, and stuck the appendage in the freezer for later study."

Lestrade leaned back in his seat, taking a triumphant sip of his tea.

"Not bad. I mean of course you missed a few _very_ important details, but, you know…"

Lestrade furrowed his brow. "What did I miss?"

"The time difference, for one thing. Human skin generally dries in 5 minutes at room temperature, sometimes less if there's a lot of movement. You took twenty minutes to prepare the tea, unknowing that I had washed my hands 10 minutes prior, giving them ample time to dry, if I hadn't already dried them manually, that is." Sherlock saw the DI lower his head in disappointment, but continued on. "The experiment was actually completely unsuccessful and I only went into the freezer to grab the entire bag to dispose of it in the trash."

"Hah! So you did go into the freezer. I was right," Lestrade boasted, perking up.

"Yes, you were right about that one thing," Sherlock concluded.

"Well, It wasn't exactly a deduction anyway, more like experience. I've been in your freezer many times and there's always that portion of ice that sticks out and scrapes my knuckle when I retract it. I've done it numerous times."

Lestrade took a sip of his tea, smirking. Sherlock did the same.

 _Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all._

* * *

3:50 p.m

Lestrade watched on as Sherlock took a deep breath, steepling his hands underneath his chin. The DI guessed he was going into his Mind Thing. He hadn't seen the detective actually do it for real, only going on what John had described to him in their phone call, so it was oddly intriguing.

Ever so calmly Sherlock's breath evened out and then slowed to a crawl. His face stiffened with concentration before smoothing out in an instant. John had informed Lestrade on every aspect of his decent, how certain facial expressions were signs of what he was doing. Sherlock was revisiting information and planting new information. How that was done was beyond him, even after John gave him the Mind Palace speech.

After a few moments Lestrade rose and made his way over to the bookshelf, skimming over all the foreign titles to find something with familiarity to pass the time; only it was Sherlock's bookshelf.

John was due back in about 3 days, he concluded dryly, then reclined back in his seat to immerse himself in The Fundamentals of Tile Grading.

4:20 p.m

A sudden crashing sound woke Lestrade from a sound slumber and he jumped up on full alert, dropping the page-turner on the floor in his hast. He fixed his eyes on the opposite chair, then the kitchen.

Both vacant.

Sherlock must've finished with his Mind business while he was asleep and left to another room to experiment more.

The DI took off at a run towards Sherlock's bedroom, _desperately_ hoping that he hadn't lost any body parts or blown up anything.

Opening the door, he found the detective leaning off kilter on his chair with his hand grasped around an ostentatious paperweight on the floor.

"Everything's fine, Inspector. I just dropped a paperweight," Sherlock said coolly, placing the object back onto his desk.

Lestrade shrugged, but left the detective to his business, heading back to the sitting room.

The DI eyed the fallen book near his chair and scrambled to pick it up to asses the damage, shaking his head. Thankfully, the spine wasn't damaged, nor was the cover. There were only a few wrinkles to the middle pages that could be smoothed out with some overnight pressure.

But in his mind he didn't think Sherlock was going to miss the book too much. He probably hadn't read it in years.

Lestrade could barely get halfway without dozing off. He was surprised he got that far without dying from boredom with all the talk about tile and _wonderful_ diagrams that walked you through each aspect of the grading process.

No wonder Sherlock was bored all the time.

Taking a quick glance to the clock— 4:25 p.m, Lestrade set the book under the necessary pressure and perused the bookshelf for something that didn't make him want to pass out.

He rolled his eyes at the mostly German and French titles, his fingers stopping on two books that were in range. A Guide to Keeping Your Lawn Healthy, and Torture Devices of the Middle Ages.

 _So, he had a chance between reading about lawn maintenance or torture._

Lestrade banged his head into the shelf.

Taking the lesser of the two evils with the greatest reluctancy, Greg walked back to his chair, much like a condemned prisoner would on his way to the gallows, face set in grim melancholy for the fate that soon awaited.

5:30 p.m

The offending book had turned out to be more entertaining than he previously thought, but barely, Lestrade thought with a yawn as he stared blearily at the time. If he was lucky there would be no more incidents until John got home.

As if rebutting his thought, the ground suddenly shook with fury, followed by a near deafening boom. Or the near deafening boom was followed by the mini earthquake that sent tremors through the floor. Something like that. But no matter which order, it was the explosion that caused the most trouble, Lestrade recalled as he inhaled the musty scent of the carpet.

John was going to kill him!

Peeling himself off the floor, Lestrade whispered profanities as he raced into the hallway to the detective's room. The scent of gun powder hung heavily in the air, causing his eyes to itch.

The door was ajar, a smoking splintered mess hanging on its hinges.

Greg's heartbeat was in his chest as he saw the limp figure on the other side. It was skyrocketing as he rushed to Sherlock's aid and pressed a hand to the side of his neck hoping to feel the pulse of _life_ still within him.

Each passing second might as well have been a minute, but finally, he detected the faint pounding of a pulse under his fingertips.

Lestrade exhaled in relief as the detective stirred to _life_. "Oh, thank God!"

"Mmm."

The DI stopped him from flipping over, bracing his neck in his hands. "Try not to move just yet, you could still be injured." He swept his gaze over him. "Now everything looks alright, but just to make sure, do you have any pain anywhere? Preferably your back, neck or head?"

"No."

"What about your vision?"

"Also fine. I can see the floor in perfect visual sharpness," the detective said sarcastically.

"Can you breathe without being obstructed?"

"Yes."

Lestrade squinted. "Can you move your fingers?"

Sherlock opened and closed his hand with ease. "Yes, I feel perfectly fine. Nothing's hurt, stiff, or blurry. Can I get up now?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"No, I still need to-"

"Check me for numbness. Then hurry it up will you!" Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade leant down to him. "Don't snap at me, Sherlock. Just be thankful it wasn't worse and I'm not probing more annoying places like your mouth, nose, or ear."

"I was just knocked unconscious," Sherlock retorted

The adrenaline was most likely preventing Sherlock from feeling his injures, going on the fact that he'd just been knocked out but his head didn't hurt. Hopefully there wasn't anything major that had been damaged, but hoping wasn't going to help much. Lestrade needed to make absolutely sure.

He shrugged. "I honestly can't believe you're not more worried about this! You could have been seriously hurt and have to stay in a wheel-chair for the rest of your life. You still might be if the last test doesn't pan out. And all you're concerned about is getting off the floor. Not to mention yelling at the only person that's trying to help you right now."

"A little common courtesy wouldn't hurt you half as much as I bet this did."

Sherlock sighed. "You're right. It was my boredom that created this havoc in the first place. I didn't mean to snap at you." It was the only way.

Lestrade nodded. He knew that Sherlock was just making it all up so that he could get up sooner, but he wasn't about to make that known. "That's better." He released his hold and stood up, rummaging through the cluttered desk. "Do you keep anything sharp in here, a needle or a pin of some sort?"

"In the jar by the lamp," Sherlock replied groggily.

Now tell me if you can feel this?" He lifted the satin material off the detective's back, as well as his shirt, and started lightly, but somewhat firmly scraping a needle on several places of his back and legs.

"Ow! Yes, yes... I feel that."

Lestrade put the needle back. "Alright, so good news is you don't have any damage to your spinal cord, or body from what I can see. The bad news is no more experimenting until tomorrow."

"You can get up now, but slowly," Lestrade directed, completely aware that he just sounded like his mother a few seconds ago.

Greg exhaled a breath he'd been unconsciously holding, and helped the detective to his feet. Sherlock was a bit wobbly on his legs at first, but he soon regained his balance. When he faced him, he saw minor bruising to the right side of his head.

"Now that I'm up-"

Lestrade interrupted. "Sherlock, you said your head didn't hurt?"

"It doesn't."

"Look in the mirror."

Sherlock gave Lestrade a puzzled expression, but complied, walking over to the line of sight that he made with the room. Sure enough, the right side of his head was grey and purple with bruises. Not only that but he could feel the _pain_ now.

"The adrenaline must've been keeping the pain at bay," Sherlock winced as he pressed a hand to the side of his head. The flesh was too tender to touch even at the lightest pressure, the detective concluded bitterly, having not foreseen the consequences of such a simple action.

"Do you keep a flashlight anywhere?"

"Yes, in the middle drawer by the sink in the kitchen." Sherlock bit out and followed the police chief into the kitchen and gladly accepted the ice pack handed to him upon arrival.

Sherlock grimaced as he put the pack to his head; he thought over Lestrade's procedure in the bedroom. That sudden burst of medical knowledge didn't come from the chief of police... that kind of knowledge could have only come from a doctor. More specifically a certain army doctor.

"John gave you medical advice in case this would happen didn't he?"

Lestrade closed the freezer. "It was one of the requirements before he'd let me watch you. And now I'm beginning to see why."

"Watch me. Watch me... Why does everyone think i'm going to blow up the flat if i'm left alone?"

"Do you really want me to answer that question?" Greg pointed to Sherlock's bedroom, with a bemused smile.

"The bedroom doesn't count. I had every portion carefully monitored to prevent a large explosion if something were to go wrong. The flat's still here," Sherlock huffed, stomping over to his chair and flopped back into it. "Besides, none of it would have happened if John would stop hiding my gun."

Lestrade shook his head and walked over to the ailing detective, crouching down, flashlight in hand. He gave instructions for him to keep his eyes open while he examined them.

His pupils were the same size and dilated evenly to the light. A good sign.

"Well, thankfully you don't have a concussion, but your head is badly bruised so keep the ice on it for a few days to bring the swelling down," Greg instructed, and returned the flashlight to the kitchen drawer.

Lestrade reclaimed the seat across from the detective, furrowing his brow in confusion. "As for your gun, how can you, of all people not be able to find the gun? There are very few things that you can't find but a gun should be easy for you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this, and answered. "Yes, but I have my suspicions that my brother helped him."

Sherlock began. "I can just see it. John striding up to his desk, asking him for assistance in his usual soldierly way, and Mycroft smirking ever so smugly with that one corner of his mouth rising just enough to make the sight miserably insufferable. And then in that knowing and arrogant tone of voice that he uses at almost every chance he gets, he says: 'Of course, John. I know the perfect place to ensconce it without raising the slightest suspicion," Sherlock mimicked his brothers voice, dryly.

Lestrade snorted. "Then I'd say you've _really_ got a problem."

"Yes, ever since he could walk," Sherlock answered with a sigh, evening the ice pack.

Lestrade smiled bemusedly. "You know, i'm not surprised you get bored so much.."

"What?"

"You know there's not much to do in here besides the random blogging, violin, shooting, and experiments on human appendages."

He continued speaking. "Oh, and let's not forget about your bookshelf. Who owns books about tile grading and lawn maintenance. You're a detective, for God's sake! What you need is some time out of the flat, the good old London air back in your lungs."

"Those books are very important for my work," Sherlock defended, leaning over.

"What? Since when have you ever used the knowledge from tile grading and lawn maintenance to crack a case? Sherlock you have a new case, a man was found dead on his bathroom floor but the tile grading under him is a 5! Or another victim was found on a spread of grass. It was heathy grass though, regularly watered and maintained.-"

Lestrade broke off into laughter...

Sherlock frowned, annoyed with his ignorance. "All of my books have a purpose in my line of work."

"Yes, yes, whatever," he said, coming off his giggle high.

Lestrade noticed how tense and fidgety he became with the silence. Sherlock began tapping wildly against the arm-rests.

"Alright, if you don't want to go outside, I'll have to find something for you to do inside."

The DI scanned the flat and found something almost immediately, but another warning of John's played back in his head as he was going to retrieve it. John told him specifically not to play that game in particular.

Taking another glance at the poor fellow though, Lestrade decided it was worth the risk and made his way to the coffee table, setting everything up.

Sherlock lifted an inquisitive brow. "Didn't John tell you the dangers of playing this game with me?" He voiced.

"He did, but I've decided to take my chances." Greg handed him his share of the clue cards. "Now, let's get on with the game."

"It was the caretaker hiding behind the Archangel statue, with a shovel."

Lestrade threw down his cards. "What? We've only been playing for 5 seconds, how could you possibly have figured that out so quickly?"

"You see-"

"Never mind, I'll just deal again."

Sherlock nodded and took more cards from Lestrade and gave them a once over.

Sherlock spoke rapid fire. "The clown with a broken leg hired a hitman to get rid of his employer on the night of the Circus in the midst of the Elephant Act."

The DI blinked but set it up again. "That's okay, we'll just start a new game. Surely all of them can't be solved as fast."

* * *

"Not to quote Donovan, but you're a freak!" He set his cards down and put the game away.

Sherlock hinted at a smile.

"Alright, well since I gather Cluedo isn't a challenge for you do you have anything in this flat that at least comes close that John also refuses to play with you?"

Just as Sherlock's about to answer, Greg's phone rings and he holds up a finger. "Hold that thought."

"Yeah, Sally."

"We found some new evidence on that Wilkinson's case. Are you still at the freak's flat?"

Lestrade couldn't help but chuckle, which Sherlock caught the meaning to and grinned. "Yes, I'm at Sherlock's. John asked me to stay here for a few days until he gets back from a medical convention. I did tell you and Anderson."

"Whatever. You already know how I feel about that," she bit back abrasively. "What do you want us to do with the evidence?"

"For now, just look it over and weed out the information that doesn't connect to the case. I'll be in sometime tonight to check your progress."

Lestrade hung up and put his mobile away and glanced over at the clock.

Just another hour to go until it was time to retire for the night. Hopefully tomorrow would bare sweeter fruit.

The detective was growing more irritable every second. He could hear each infernal tick of the clock going slower and slower until he thought he could hear every gear turning, each chink of the mechanism. He was aware of each beat of his heart, every blink, every breath, every...

Lestrade jumped up in surprise as he saw the detective race past him and over to the closet.

"Sherlock, what ever you're thinking of doing, don't."

"I'm going to my brother's place and making him tell me where he hid my gun. You can either come or stay here, but don't get in my way."

"What? Sherlock it's too late to disturb your brother like that, at least wait until morning?"

"I'm bored now. I'm going."

Lestrade knew that time was short as the detective was shuffling to get dressed. He tried one last time to reason with him. "He's probably asleep."

The DI heard a small sigh of resignation and then the sound of the closet door shutting. Sherlock locked his vision on him. "First thing."

Lestrade ran a hand over his face in relief. John would've been furious if he let Sherlock interrogate his brother at that late hour, or interrogate him, for that matter. Though, no-one could make Sherlock do anything. If Sherlock had his heart set on something he was going to get it done come hell or high water and God help any man who got in his way.

Lestrade watched as Sherlock climbed underneath the door to his bedroom and grunted as a bit of his robe snagged a jagged piece of wood. Finally though, he managed to squeeze inside to what Lestrade could only guess was to go to sleep or go back to his mind house or whatever it was called.

Though he was initially keen to wait out the hour, Lestrade found himself uncharacteristically sleepy, no doubt due to all the stress he'd been under, and climbed upstairs to retire, himself.

* * *

 **Mycroft, run! Remember, if you have any requests for a certain character you would like to see, or an idea for a chapter you would like to read, please don't hesitate to ask :) I have loads of ideas, but a few more can never hurt, trust me. Feel free to review ;)**


	18. Chapter 18: Krampus

**I realized that I miss responding to reviews here, so i'm gonna make a point to respond to each and every one of them here from now on.**

bubblecloudz: yo so in the first scene last line ish you've used 'new' instead of 'knew' also sidenote, idk if you're not british but most peeps in england here call them torches, not flashlights ;p

ok nitpicking aside - ! awe this was so nice. i liked seeing this insight to lestrade, and the bookshelf thing was fun :3  
do you think greg will take him(sherlock) book shopping? that'll occupy him (and be hilarious) at the very least XD

 **-Yes, thank you for pointing that out, it means a lot that you're paying attention to even the most minor mistakes. It shows you care *heart* You don't know if i'm British, well that means i've been keeping to the realism. Great :D Also, I know about the torches thing but I just can't get past how it sounds, so I use flashlight.**

 **-That's wonderful :) I wanted to reveal more of his character, little by little, so i'm glad you liked the insight ;) Honesly, that sounds really fun so I will think about your book shopping idea.**

 **Thank you all for your continued support, it really means so much to me that you enjoy these so much *heart* This chapter was my absolute favorite to write :D But I also suffered a little. Don't type in Krampus in a Google image search. *shudders* I don't own the Original Wizard of Oz reference in this chapter. Onward!**

* * *

Chapter 18: Krampus

-SH-

48 hours remaining:

Lestrade awakened to the sound of a car alarm right outside his window, ringing in his ears. He jolted upright, his eyes slitted as they adjusted to the brightness of a new day. Groaning, he laid back down again, burying his face in the soft pillow, reluctant to wake up just yet.

Loud shouting blended with the car alarm.

Lestrade opened his eyes, knowing that sleep was an impossibility. The room itself had absolutely no wall hangings of any kind, just blank, white walls and a small little desk in the far corner supporting his laptop. That's when it hit him that he wasn't at _home._

John had asked him to babysit Sherlock for three days, and this was day two. That meant he had the rest of the day to deal with a bored sociopath and possibly more explosions or worse.

In all his years with the police department, and in his life, he never ever expect to be thinking such a strange thought or executing it, for that matter.

Throwing back the covers, Lestrade swung his feet out and stood up, bristling as the chill of the air chased away the warmth of his body. He was a move for the door when he felt unusually exposed, and glanced down to find himself completely in the nude.

Throwing on his knickers, he quickly made his way downstairs and into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He finished his business and brushed his teeth speedily, knowing that every moment could be crucial to Sherlock's safety. But when was it not. Over the last two days he'd grown to admire the army doctor's patience and commitment; seeing first hand what 24/7 really meant. John Watson was truly the _only_ one for the harrowing task.

Once finished with a few of his daily domestic chores, he padded over to Sherlock's room. He knocked on his door once… no answer…. Twice… the same result…. A third time, even louder….. Still nothing. Sherlock was probably buried too deep in his Mind House to even hear him, Lestrade concluded bitterly.

John had warned him never to just walk in his room without making his presence known, for countless disasters had befallen the army doctor, nearly life-threatening. Dutifully, though however dangerous, he had to take the chance for Sherlock was under his protection and care until he returned.

Shrugging, Lestrade opened the door to….

An empty room. Of course.

Greg's heart was tight as he looked over the disarrayed sheets and blankets that looked as if a hurricane had swept them up and haphazardly spit them out in a tangled mess. Sherlock must have had a tough time sleeping last night. But that didn't explain where he was. Or did it? Lestrade thought back to the events that night. Sherlock had been very tense and impatient, nearly leaving the flat to go after his brother at that late hour. _Then, Greg had told him it was too late to go and to try again in the morning._

"Oh, no! What have I done!"

Exiting the room, Lestrade ran to the closet and spent a brief time giving his wardrobe a once-over, sniffing his musty clothes. He had forgotten to take a shower that night, but certainly couldn't take one now. He would just have to wash when he got back from rescuing Mycroft and ignore the inevitable stares at his knickers.

Throwing on his coat and shoes, he ran out the door and waited by the street for a cab.

Not long after, hearty giggling from behind a few wooden bins, caused him to clench his fists angrily, then release with greater control. They were just children after all, the time to get angry would be if the Media got wind of it. "Come out?" He ordered in a firm tone.

A few moments later, three schoolboys with dirty faces slowly crept out of their hiding places with amused expressions as they watched the police chief.

Greg sighed. "Alright, enough gawking. Get to school, you've had your fun."

"Now, or i'll call your parents."

They went silent, obviously testing if he was bluffing. Of course.

"Now!"

Yelling at them wasn't working, they just kept staring at his unfortunate attire with smiles on their faces, laughing and pointing. And as expected the spectacle brought more curious spectators to witness the embarrassment over a period of a few minutes. Lestrade prayed for a cab to come.

* * *

"Sir, your… brother… is here to see you."

Mycroft waved off his secretary's shaky voice, knowing Sherlock's scare tactics by heart. It was evident in her voice that his brother had threatened her in some way, most likely using his anatomical knowledge to elicit fear, for no one in the whole of England was able to frighten his secretary due to her time as a prisoner of war, except for his younger brother.

Mycroft neatly folded his newspaper, placing it onto his high-polished desk before sluggishly pressing down the button connected to the machine's speaker. "Tell him I'm busy with a very important matter that can't be interrupted."

"Um… sir, he doesn't like that idea. He insists that… you see him now. He said he's not leaving until you agree to see him and will terrorize the other members here if you don't."

Sherlock wasn't playing clean. "Very well, send him in," Mycroft drawled.

"He's on his way."

"Thank you, Margarete." Releasing his finger, Mycroft picked up the paper again and no sooner did he begin reading the first line did he recognize the near silent footfalls of his brother nearby and felt a the air briefly displace.

"What is it that you wanted to see me about, Sherlock? And pray, make the explanation posthaste I have another matter that needs attending to," he said smoothly.

Silence.

Curious, Mycroft pulled his nose out of the article to glance up at Sherlock, only to discover something quite unsettling.

Mycroft flinched full-bodily and scurried out of his chair before and taking a startled step back towards the wall. He swallowed, then scowled. "You promised mother you would never do this, Sherlock." Mycroft's voice quivered slightly.

Sherlock was dressed in his usual over coat and scarf, but his face was painted black and the corners of his mouth curled high up into a menacing toothy smile that stretched from ear to ear, sharp jagged teeth poking outside the barrier of his mouth.

"You gave me no choice, little child," Sherlock replied, tilting his head in a deranged manner, his canines exposed, along the entire top and bottom row of fake teeth. His fingers formed a steeple, with long sharp claws that were adhered to his nail-beds intersecting to form an abstract roof.

"What do you want?" Mycroft asked, staring at the opposite wall, visually trying to calm himself.

"You know that answer already. Where is it, brother mine?" Sherlock rasped out between his teeth.

Mycroft knew clearly what Sherlock was after, why he donned up this ridiculous, though quite frankly hideous disguise. To frighten him into revealing the location of John's gun. Though he would have never guessed he would do such a cruel thing to him. "I honestly have no idea what you are referring to," he said simply, keeping his expression plain except for the thin sheen on terror that coated his brow.

"Wrong answer!"

To Mycroft's horror, Sherlock began advancing forward, pushing him even further backward. His heart was pounding out of his chest, his hands were quivering by his sides.

Mycroft started to reach into his pocket, but he shut his eyes as he felt Sherlock's hands claw onto both arms.

"You can do better," the detective hissed.

* * *

A police car pulled up to the curb and Donovan and Anderson stepped out. The plain expressions only lasted until they stepped out, then they changed to ones of disappointment mixed with amusement as they beheld their boss.

"What happened last night, where were you?" Donovan questioned, her hands on her hips.

Lestrade shrugged. He had forgotten to look over the new evidence last night thanks to all the disturbance with Sherlock. He wasn't sure if he'd ever agree to watch him again after all the trouble he was continuing to cause.

"And why are you in your knickers?" Anderson asked, only barely keeping his cool.

"Look, something came up last night and I was unable to leave until it was too late."

"He caused you trouble again. What di the freak do, seal you inside the flat until you gave him back his eyeballs."

Greg ignored her comment. "As soon as John comes back, I'll resume my duties, but until then I have to look after Sherlock."

"Looks like you lost him to me," Donovan replied, glancing to his legs where the coat didn't cover.

"Yes, well he left without me knowing so now I have to go get him." Lestrade walked around the car and slid into the drivers seat, hearing the doors slam closed as he put the key in the ignition.

"Where to, Boss?" Why were they coming along?

"The Diogenes Club." He looked over at them before throwing the vehicle into reverse. He scrunched his brows in curiosity. "Just why are you two tagging along?" They had no reason to come. If they needed transportation the two of them could've just as easily took a cab, so why were they there now? Especially, why Donovan who had hated Sherlock the day she met him?

"You're going to need all the help you can get. Now drive."

Could there still be a place in her heart that actually cared what happened to the man? If there was, she never showed it except for small glimpses when Sherlock jumped to his death off of Bart's. But he saw mostly guilt clouding her continence then, never any true grief for the detective, though he knew she had cries every so often. Whether it was grief or gilt had never been found out.

Anderson just seemed to tag along wherever she went, though it was to be expected when they were sleeping together.

"Hey, I'm still your boss you know." Greg reminded, before peeling out of the driveway. Please don't be too late.

…..

"Sherlock think about what you're doing, I will eventually break free and call security. You don't want a prison record as a consulting detective, it would blemish your reputation considerably." He did a smug, half smile.

Sherlock shoved his face a few inches away from Mycroft's, close enough to smell the woody musk of his cologne. "No you won't. You're too afraid of my appearance to overpower me, and what I will do if I catch you."

Mycroft swallowed.

...

The vehicle came to an unsteady halt outside Mycroft's headquarters. Lestrade's mind was swimming with medical knowledge in case either Sherlock or his brother were hurt, though it gave him quite a headache to think of possibilities how it would be useful.

"Alright, let's get him back, Lestrade ordered, stepping onto the pavement of the distinguished gentleman's club. The other two followed soon after and the three of them made their way into the building.

A secretary with auburn hair and doe-brown eyes spotted them immediately.

"We're here to see Mycroft." Lestrade barked out.

"What is your membership number?" She asked, wheeling herself over to the computer.

"I don't actually have one, but I need to get in and see Mycroft."

Margarete stood up, fixing her eyes on the Inspector." I'm sorry, but only members are aloud to be here."

Lestrade peeked around to his team, but they were too busy admiring the décor to notice. He faced her again, his face pallor. "Look we have reason to believe that Mycroft may be in danger."

She narrowed her eyes. "From whom?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

The Di watched as her face turned sheet-white, no doubt Sherlock had been here very recently and frightened her. As he does with nearly everyone.

"….. Yes, very well, you may enter," she stuttered. "That lift leads right to his office." The woman pointed behind her.

"Hey, don't touch that!"

Lestrade turned around to find Donovan and Anderson standing by a table near the front of the room, holding identical Golden Swans in their hands, their faces like ones of startled deer caught in the headlights. They quickly set down the objects and rushed over to the chief.

Lestrade nodded his thanks to the secretary, then shot his team a 'What the hell were you doing, look' before pulling them away from their ogling, heading over to the lift.

There were no buttons inside whatsoever, only a red phone on the wall to their left in case of an emergency. They stepped inside.

"Let's have it, what on earth possessed you two to do that?"

Anderson perked up from staring up at the shimmering ceiling, but kept silent, staring at Donovan to answer first.

"We couldn't help it sir, all this shiny gold is just begging to be touched. We couldn't resist," Donovan defended, soon echoed by Anderson.

Greg snorted. "I swear, you two act like complete children sometimes."

An insightful ding followed the break of the lift, and then the metal doors glided open to reveal only a single door at the end of a long corridor, nothing else in sight but the mahogany walls boxing them in.

Stepping out, the DI sprinted towards the door, his team following.

They all paused outside the door, Lestrade gripping the handle.

"Sir?" Donovan quarried.

"I know, I'm getting to it." There was no way to know what atrocities they would be witnessing once they entered. Lestrade kept seeing Mycroft bound to the top of his desk, with Sherlock sneering over him, a dagger raised over his chest in a threat to Mummify him alive if he didn't reveal the location of his gun.

Sherlock had studied Egyptian history in uni, so it was at least possible.

Readying himself, Lestrade turned the handle 180 degrees to his right and walked inside.

 _"Sherlock! What the Bloody Hell are you doing!"_

Sherlock jerked his gaze away from his brother, sneering at intruders. "He's been a very bad child this year so he's being punished."

Lestrade stepped back in almost a fall, catching himself at the last second on the arm of a chair, his face blank with confusion and horror. Well, at least Mycroft wasn't tied up. Though the unnaturally devilish grin, black painted face, and 4 inch long claws digging into Mycroft's trembling arm, didn't exactly bring relief. _The poor man._

Donovan and Anderson were in nearly the same shape, shaking from fright against the back wall. Sherlock's appearance made the Water's Family look like cute fluffy rabbits in comparison.

"You see, I told you all he's a freak."

Lestrade swiped his hand over his throat in a gesture to make her stop, but she just continued on with her self-righteous declaration.

"I tried to warn you all, even you, Mycroft." She pointed an indignant finger at him. "But would you listen? No. None of you listened to me and now look what you're stuck with… a dangerous psychopath who has no regard for anyone but himself. Come on! Look what he's doing all to get his gun back, and you think he's a stable person you can trust?" She shook her head, staring at the detective who was giving her a defeated look. "I haven't from day one," she finished.

Greg saw something dark flash in Sherlock's eyes, devouring the twinge of guilt into nothingness. This wasn't going to be good.

"For the last time, I'M a HIGH-FUNCTIONING SOCIOPATH!"

Sherlock released Mycroft's arm and turned to Donovan, the grin completely gone, only a cold expression icing his lips in place. He stomped over to her and watched her for a moment, calculating a close representation of her thoughts. She was scared, though she hid it well.

Anderson suddenly did the complete unexpected and stepped in front of her, his face set in determination.

Of all the moves, this was the last one that Sherlock could've predicted. It was the only Manly gesture Anderson had ever made, and despite the circumstances, he had to admit he was impressed by the sudden show of bravery coming from the Idiot.

"Don't touch her," Anderson spat, his arms fisted to his sides. He was prepared to fight.

"Well, this is a turn up. The Scarecrow defending the Wicked Witch of the West. My, this is something…" Sherlock chuckled.

Anderson's jaw ticked, but he said nothing.

Mycroft smoothed down his coat, his heart-rate slowing now that he was somewhat free. Why did the coat have to bare the brunt of his brother's anger? Sherlock had already cost him 500 pounds in damages from the many other times he'd man-handled him, though Mycroft also caused a few damages of his own as well; some of which hadn't even been noticed by Sherlock yet.

Where to hide the gun, solved by a simple process of elimination and knowledge of his brother's mind. Sherlock thinks of the most complicated solution first, then narrows it down to a simplistic and probable form, then does the last bit of pruning. First, he would believe that Mycroft had hid it in the room somewhere, knowing that they both knew about a few secret government locations. Therefore, it was improbable to hide it anywhere else.

This whole show Sherlock was putting on was just to speed up the recovery process. Patience was never one of Sherlock's virtues, and caving under pressure was something Mycroft never did. Even if it was blackmail, or a direct threat or defiled action towards the British government, Mycroft always had a card up his sleeve, a secret weapon or an incriminating file that would cause havoc if it were to get out in the open or fall into the hands of a rival organization. It was his job to be ready for anything.

Mycroft gratefully realized that Sherlock now had his back turned to him.— This was his chance. Mycroft took off at a run toward the opposite lift, but unfortunately it required a key-code to operate it.

He was only numbers away before being shamelessly tackled to the floor by something heavy. Sherlock.

Mycroft groaned, rolling on his stomach to check for cracked ribs. Thankfully they were in tact, just his chest was a little tender. He opened his eyes to find Sherlock glaring over him, looking hideous, the other three were circled around him forming a kaleidoscope of heads…. No, wait, there were bodies attached to the heads, he saw that now. Their lips were moving but only for a few seconds at a time. Attention method. The fall must've made him dizzy but the effect appeared to be wearing off, Mycroft concluding, blinking his eyes a few times.

"I will give you only one more chance to tell me the location, then I'll start taking apart your office, piece by piece." Sherlock enunciated, which caused saliva to pelt Mycroft's face.

He narrowed his eyes, wiping a hand over his face. "Not if I call security."

Sherlock snorted. "With what, I confiscated your phone and there's no way you're going to run past me to ring your secretary."

Mycroft sighed. There was apparently only one option left, though it wasn't entirely safe or foolproof. "It's…"

"Yes?"

"Behind The Painting, in the safe."

Sherlock handed Mycroft his phone back, which Mycroft returned to his pocket, and arose from his crouched position over to the painting.

Mycroft then pushed himself into a standing position once the ring of observers loosened, and ran as fast as his feet would carry him over to the lift. He punched in the last numbers needed before stepping inside, texting blindly with the phone still in his pocket:

Code S MH

Code S, active! A

He had his diversion.

Mycroft allowed himself a breath of relief, leaning back against the metal wall. He had been planing for Sherlock to take this drastic course of action, though, admittedly there were a few deviations that he hadn't calculated. Such as Sherlock's complete disregard for a promise.

Mycroft stepped out and nodded to his secretary who nodded back, fully briefed on the situation. Anthea was outside, holding open the door of a stark white car. Sherlock would be expecting him to be in his usual pitch-black vehicle, never white. It was an ingenious plan, if he did say do himself.

Mycroft entered, absorbing the sound of the door closing like it was the sweetest sound in the world. At that moment, it was.

It was foolish to think he could handle Sherlock himself.

Fort Knox.

John, you're urgently needed back. DI

* * *

 **You can see I had entirely too much fun, even if Mycroft didn't... XD And that title, Lol. I haven't watched the movie, but the disturbing way Sherlock smiled in A Sign of Three gave me this idea :P I can't wait until John get's back. What do you think he's gonna do? Go all Bad Ass on Sherlock? I hope so :D Anyway, feel free to review so I have lots of comments to respond to :D**


	19. Chapter 19: Dear, brother

**Chapter 19 everyone! Thank you all enormously much for all the support and love that you've shown this fanfic, despite all the slow updates recently. |Inserted heart emoji| *Glances at calendar... Faints***

 ***Mutters a thank you to Mrs. Hudson before getting up off the floor and grabbing John's laptop again.* Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed the small detour that we've taken because there are still a few more chapters to it. For those of you who enjoyed the classic Bored chapters, don't worry, I will go back to that very soon.**

bubblecloudz: hahaha well done XD i love the mix of crack fic and angst fic. done so well

please make john go all commanding officer on sherlock. it seems to be the only time he listens to him haha

torches whats wrong with torches 'flashlight' what a silly name.  
(it also sounds too much like fleshlight to me and i just cant im so sorry)

 **Reply: ;)**

 **As always, Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 19: Dear, brother

-SH-

John inwardly sighed. It was true that Medical conventions were very exciting and entertaining, but that didn't mean that the all doctors necessarily were. This was the 30th time in between seminars that John had to resist the temptation to fall asleep as a doctor and his wife kept chatting endlessly about their son's new growth spurt hindering him from fitting his new clothes properly; a small summary about their pet's mood-swings and irregular eating patterns in between. John had told them he was an Army doctor not a pediatrician, but that didn't matter as they were too busy carrying on to hear him.

He finally made an excuse that he was going to look around a bit in which his dull company left him swiftly to go their way.

"Sherlock, you would've hated it here," John muttered, laughing quietly as he thought of all the experiments Sherlock would try to run with the doctors. Sherlock would have probably gotten them kicked out within a half hour, John estimated, and couldn't help the fanciful smile that curved his lips.

No, he wasn't going to do this, not again. Sherlock was back at Baker Street, not physically here with him. John continued mentally chiding himself, but it didn't help. He had really missed his crazy flatmate over the last two days. Two days. Forty-eight hours. That was all time that had elapsed. He was weak. Though to be fair, there wasn't much company, at least entertaining company at these things.

But what had happened that changed his views so drastically? When he was a young 20 year old intern just starting out, he used to the love every aspect of these conventions. Enjoyed them, even. What had changed? Could it be that the war, and a high-functioning sociopath somehow played a part in changing him from a crashing bore, to an adrenaline junkie always in need of a fix. Yes. It was entirely possible.

A glance to his watch... 2:30. Another seminar was about to begin, John thought arduously and made his way back to the seating, but not before being stopped by an elderly couple who thought he bore a striking resemblance to their deceased war-hero of a son.

Despite the abrupt meeting, the conversation was actually quite engaging and intriguing, for once. Being an army man, John could relate to the duty to serve one's country. However, not the loss of losing a loved one to the service. Thankfully, that hadn't happened... yet.

Abruptly, he was torn away from the best conversation he'd had in days when his mobile beeped. John speedily dug it out of his pocket and read the displayed text.

In no more than three seconds, John's eyes went wide and he was sprinkling his apologies before leaving the convention.

What have you done now, you git?

* * *

"Sherlock, it's not here!" Cried Lestrade for the 12th time.

He had been forced to watch the detective ransack… no, destroy Mycroft's office for the past 20 minutes and up until now he never thought Sherlock could ever make such a mess in that short amount of time with only his bare hands. But still, with all the effort, there was still no gun.

Greg hoped that Mycroft was far away from the Diogenes to be untraceable to the maniacal detective inevitably going to chase after him after he'd disassembled the last chair in the entire office. The legs were already broken, so he was halfway there.

Lestrade furiously paced around to where Sherlock was smashing a few wooden legs against the wall. "Fine. If you're not going to listen to me, then at least, For God's sake, take that hideous disguise off!"

Sherlock just looked at him briefly and went back to his work, indifferently.. "This hideous disguise is still useful. I'll not change my appearance until I can feel the cold steel of the gun in my hand." With that, Sherlock took a running start and smashed himself right into Mycroft's gold ladened clock, nearly impaling his arm on the hour hand.

Greg sighed.

...

Gold. Everywhere. In truth, Mycroft had been to Fort Knox before- well, that was just what he called it. Its real name was the Securicor headquarters; England's equivalent to Fort Knox in West Drayton. The many crisp stacks of gold littering the floors, made it a cousin to the real Fort Knox at least in his mind.

Unsurprisingly, the place hadn't been recently burglarized since Mycroft had been put in charge of security by the British government. The motion detectors, overhead steel bars, retina, voice recognition, fingerprint and DNA scanners made the Fort impenetrable to outside access. A few weeks prior, there had been an inside man who worked as a security guard that cheated the old system, lifting small amounts of gold and hiding it in a knapsack right in front of the security camera's. It was safe to say that they had lost some credibility after the incident and then Mycroft was called in to bring order out of the chaos.

After that, the screening of new potential workers was enhanced by Mycroft, then the doors were sealed with a special 20 digit binary access code and taught to a select few guards who passed the rigorous screening.

A green light granted Mycroft access to the vaults after he deposited his DNA on the scanner.

There were rows and rows of cases with specific numbers etched on them. Only one held the gun. Case 224, Mycroft mused to himself, collecting the case promptly and walked out.

It appeared the only safe place to hide it now was on his person. Mycroft thought it over for a moment before tucking the gun in his suit pocket, hiding it from view other than a small bump showing through. He then exited the building and slid back inside the milk-white vehicle, feeling a sigh about to release as the engine rumbled and the vehicle jerked softly into motion. This was his fault, and he knew it.

He was a rubbish big brother.

Sherlock had been right. He was a rubbish big brother practically all their childhood and now he was failing him again in their adult lives. Only, this failure didn't only result in sore behind's, scolding, and disappointed looks. No, now his mistakes were of "epic" proportions, resulting in fake deaths, bullet wounds, and torture. He was just going back to his old ways just like he did with the other one and as much as that scared him, he knew that he'd one day have to accept a large envelope with a few pictures inside acting as the catalyst and painful reminder that the face staring back at him would have been better off never knowing him.

Mycroft felt a sudden urge to burst right in through the door to his office and offer himself up to Sherlock's machinations and physical release, almost wished for it. But as if a few bruises and a split lip could ever erase his guilt and make them even.

No, his relationship with Sherlock was far too damaged to be saved. It was time to amputate before he lost himself in uncontrolled grief. Sherlock deserved that much from him.

Mycroft let out a breath and gathered himself before pecking out a message on his phone and turned to his assistant. She shot him a sad understanding look, but immediately sobered up and conveyed the new directions which her boss had wordlessly indicated, to the driver.

* * *

"What now!" John complained as he peered out the window of the bus, to find the answer to his question.

An old lady was being assisted out of her car, slowly. She was paralyzed from the waist down, John observed, watching her hands move with ease to grip the nurse's arm for support as she carried her to the wheelchair near them..

Normally, John would be more understanding and beyond patient, but the fear that Sherlock had burned or blown up the flat was making him antsy. Not to mention, the bus had already stopped for a few passing dogs, 5 abnormally long red lights and a few teenagers who seemed to think they were the masters of time and space and didn't care if they took like an hour crossing the street.. And now there was an incapacitated old lady. John may have been specially trained in patience, but this stretched his limits.

The army doctor contemplated his next move for a few moments before rising in his seat and nearing the door. But the problem was, the bus wasn't stationary but moving very fast.

Having made up his mind, John walked to the front of the bus and got the attention of the driver. "Do you know who I am?"

Vague, yet it seemed the right question to start with.

The man responded in a cockney accent, keeping his eyes glued to the road. "Yeah, a citizen with places to go. And I got you, but this bus can only go so fast, so if you sit tight I promise you'll arrive at your destination soon."

John ran his hand over his face in exasperation. Not off to a great start. Elaboration was in order. "No, I mean, you don't recognize me from the papers?" John blinked.

"Oh… now that you mention it…." Yes, this was good, he was getting somewhere. The man's face lit up with realization. "Oh! You're that guy from that commercial... the one about that pill for erectile dysfunction." John's mouth gaped.

"Yeah, I took your pill and might I say you're supporting a good product. Haven't had a problem in bed, yet," he chuckled, his eyes still on the road.

John knew that commercial was going to haunt him. Just because the actor looked a bit like him, he was now being labeled in that 'way.' No. Just no. "Um… no. I'm not an actor i'm a doctor. I used to be an army doctor, to be precise and now I follow a detective around London named Sherlock Holmes and we solve crimes to keep this city as safe as possible."

The driver opened his mouth to speak, but John beat him to the last word. "My name is John Watson," he finished strongly."

"You can't be that lanky fellow on the telly. You're pulling my leg…"

Lanky? …. Never mind, bigger fish. "No, i'm the one and only lanky fellow on the telly, and right now my partner could have quite possibly blown up our living quarters for all I know so I need to get off this bus.

"Then you'll have to wait like everyone else. Now get back in your seat," he ordered.

John shrugged and made a few calculations in his head. It didn't look so hard. The reading on the speedometer was nearly the same when he had been kidnapped in that tank back in Afghanistan. Even the height was decreased by 5 feet. This was going to be relatively easy.

At least, that's what he thought before getting a closer look.

John's throat instinctively bobbed as he looked down at the pavement streaking past him at warp speeds. Easy was the wrong word.

Still, the future of London could have depended on him at that moment which set John off of worry mode and into hard-core mode. He could do this.

Three things happened extremely fast. One, John pulled the release lever for the door, two, there were frightened screams and shouts though they were mostly blocked out by the wind whipping at him. And three, John felt all his body hit the pavement at 50 miles an hour, and something crunched before he felt overwhelming pain hit and cloud all his other senses.

The next moment John opened his eyes, the driver was staring at him, whispering curses in a low voice.

"Why the hell did you do that mate? If I had known you were going to jump, I would have stopped the bloody thing. We need to get you to a hospital, i'll call an ambulance."

"No, really, I'm fine," John replied brokenly. He knew he had broken a few fingers, as well as his arm, fractured his pectoral muscle and hit his head almost hard enough to cause a concussion; but he just sported a nice deep cut. Not to mention his entire body was most likely covered in bruises as he really hurt everywhere. Still, he knew he could still walk and keep going. The injuries were fairly tame compared to others in the past.

"No, you're not. You should've stuck to acting," the man chided, dialing 999.

That seemed to have put a spring in John's step as he stood up, leaning his weight back on a skip, gritting his teeth as he did so.

"What? Are you crazy?" The man made an attempt to support the doctor, but John just waved him off with his good hand.

"I've been through much worse," John insisted. "Get back inside that bus, they're waiting for you."

John squeezed his thumb and forefinger together up to his audience on the bus showing he was okay and ran off toward the location of the last text. Well, ran isn't quite the right word, limped off is a more accurate description.

He'd have to remember to thank Mycroft one of these days for installing such software on his phone.

…..

"You see? It's not here."

"But it has to be here! There are no other plausible places for Mycroft to have hidden it….. "Oh!"

Lestrade squinted in confusion at the detective. "What?"

"This is just like him to…. Oh, he's good.- Far better than I give him credit for." Sherlock turned towards the DI. "May I borrow your phone?"

"Why can't you just use your own?"

Sherlock gave Lestrade a' seriously?' face. "Because I prefer not to get texts right now, it ruins my concentration. Now would you?-"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Lestrade said in a drawled out tone and handed Sherlock his phone.

Right away, Sherlock was pecking away at the keys at a rapid rate, smirking at times, then frowning at others. "Damn, no good. He's made it impenetrable to my hacking abilities. I'll just have to…. Ouch!"

"Sorry," Lestrade spoke apologetically, pausing the wrapping on Sherlock's arm briefly before continuing…

Sherlock couldn't help but remember that John never hurt him while bandaging him up. He was precise, professional and always as gentle as possible when handling all his injuries. Not to mention that his hands were always warm when they touched him...

"It's fine," the detective replied in a clipped tone.

Lestrade finished wrapping his wrist from the supply of gauze that he found in the medicine cabinet, the only place left untouched because hiding a gun in there would be too dangerous, according to Sherlock. "Now, what were you saying before?"

Sherlock hummed, but then looked up at Lestrade's impatient expression when he received no answer. "Nothing, I'm just trying to hack into my brother's GPS. The one on his phone." Of course, that wasn't the truth. He was really trying to hack the Fort and find which box held his gun.

Here. Sherlock angrily shoved the phone back in the DI's face.

"What the hell?"

The two of them both turned slowly towards the lift.

Sherlock's eyes went wide, but then relaxed.

"No, John. What the hell, is a word to describe your appearance," Sherlock said smoothly, looking over the army doctors bruised and cut body and dislocated ligaments.

John scoffed. "I had to act quickly because I thought you had blown up the flat!" He walked around, surveying the damage, kicking debris away from his path. " And it looks like I wasn't very far off on my assumption,"

Sherlock turned sinisterly towards Lestrade. "You told him, didn't you?"

The police chief first gave Sherlock a puzzling look as to how he knew he had texted John, but then seemed to accept it on the grounds of, 'he's Sherlock.' "Wha… I had to, you gave me no choice. I… I didn't know what you were going to do next."

Sherlock scowled at him, giving him a, 'we're not done with this conversation,' type look and met John's gaze again.

"Sherlock, your brother's office is torn to shreds! And I find you smack-dab in the middle of it with this ridiculous getup that makes you look like a lump of mud with jagged teeth. He had every right to call me here. I'm surprised he dealt with your madness this long without a mishap to be honest."

The detective's voice drifted into a dangerously calm state. "You're absolutely right, John. I shouldn't be mad at Lestrade…" His voice rose to new decibels. "I should be furious at you."

"What.. how do you fi…"

"You're the one who plotted with my brother to hide my gun forcing me to take this extreme measure..." Sherlock began to walk towards him. "So where is it John, hum? Where did you hid it?"

John kept a steel-like composure, starring the detective down.

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably on the chair he was leaning on, hoping things wouldn't escalate to the point of a fist fight or worse.

"I don't know where it is," John answered simply, still keeping eye contact.

Sherlock smirked smugly.

John didn't so much as quiver a lip.

At that moment, Lestrade accidentally leaned too hard on the chair and it squeaked as it scraped the wood flooring. This seemed to break the tense atmosphere as the other two craned their necks toward the noise.

"Sorry," he replied tersely.

"Alright, well I've had enough of this. You and me are going to take a short trip to the hospital and then back to the flat and then we're going to search for your brother, that is if he hasn't already left the country by now."

Sherlock glowered. "You can't order me around John. I'm not one of your soldiers I'm a civilian, and civilian authority always outranks a soldier's."

John lowered his voice to a rough whisper. "Sherlock, either you come with me, or you really don't want to know what option two is." John leaned in closer to him, his eyes flashing with warning. "Believe me, you don't." John saw a hint of fear in Sherlock's eyes for a split second before it was glazed over.

Sherlock shrugged, but let John lead him out of the building, leaving a gaping Lestrade behind.

* * *

Sherlock looked over every inch of his friend, deducing all that had happened to him in the last two days, except the most import. His injuries were far from grave but they must have been painful all the same, though if John were in pain, he did a good job of hiding it from the detective. "Does it hurt?"

John replied without stirring from his place by the window. "Just slightly, yes."

"What happened to you?"

Oh, so now Sherlock was interested in the doctor's well being finally. Not as if he cared. Sherlock hadn't cared enough to keep up his behavior while he was gone, so why was he caring now? The army doctor had run out of ideas.

John turned from the window. "Just the usual. My own rushed stupidity naturally revolving around the well being and safety of my friends," he replied.

"John, you know what I meant," Sherlock replied knowingly, rubbing the last of the ink from his face with John's handkerchief.

The army doctor smirked at him. "I jumped off a moving bus because I thought the reason Lestrade called me here was because you'd blown up the flat or even the entire street with one of your experiments."

The army doctor's eyes were squeezed partially shut now, though not from any pain. Remembrance most likely.

"You lept off a bus, for me?"

John's eyes shot open at the sound of Sherlock's rich baritone hinting at confusion. "Well of course I did you git! it's my flat too and I value it above all others, it is my world and if anything were to happen to it … I'd be beside myself." John partially sounded out the last few words, emotion clogging his voice. Sherlock should have known what his response would be to such a dumb question. From day one he had already saved the stupid git's life, and that count has only risen.

Sherlock silently grunted a response. He knew John wasn't referring to the flat, but to him. Wasn't he? The detective partially felt like that was the correct answer; what else would give him that fuzzy warm feeling in his chest that he was experiencing in that moment but the right answer.

But there was still confusion to his sobriety. John often had that effect on his calculating mind, distracting it with 'feelings' and those other wretched things called emotions and bringing his own out as well. This should have been easy. A simple question requiring a simple answer, but no matter what he did, Sherlock still couldn't wrap his mind around a solution.

There was only one thing left to do. Separate his body from his mind.

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock?"

John sighed and leaned back in his seat, contemplating the reason Sherlock sook help from his mind palace and desperately hoping Sherlock wasn't so much of a cyborg that he didn't know the answer to the question posed.

The more John thought about the possibility, the more he worried and wanted to drag Sherlock to consciousness. Thankfully though, he soon saw an eyelid flicker open and hands returned to a resting position. Dark glossy eyes met his own and John nearly had to hold back a shiver from the power of his gaze.

"You really did jump off a bus for me. No other reason except that you cared… about… about me." He cleared his throat.

John mentally coached himself through some breathing techniques, reminding himself to forgive the man for being lost when it came to human emotion. He answered calmly. "Yes."

"But how? I drive you mad with getting myself injured and nearly killed practically all the time, I shoot the walls and leave appendages in the fridge. Not to mention I obnoxiously yell that i'm bored almost every hour of everyday that I don't have a case. I know that I'm an annoying, obnoxious asshole and no one except my own mother has ever cared about me." Lied.

He paused. "So how is it even possible that you do?"

John stared into the glassy eyes needy for an answer as well as perplexed with the idea. "Because I just do." Sherlock bristled at the short response which pushed John to go on. "I have ever since we met. You gave me my life back, you gave me that adrenaline which I craved and solved my psychosomatic limp which no psychiatrist had ever been able to do."

"Of course not John, most psychiatrists are idiots."

They both chuckled at that answer, but then John's face hardened again, letting Sherlock know that he was going to continue on.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is that you not only gave me my life back, but you gave me a reason to live."

A contemplative expression was once more taking over the detective's vivid features. Though it could have just been the lighting in the cab. "How?"

"Oh please, if it weren't for your dangerous stunts with drug-murdering psychopaths and chasing your ass all throughout bloody London, I'd have absolutely nothing to do."

Sherlock snorted at John's response. A good sound and John couldn't help but smile at the sound of it.

The cab lightly jolted to a stop.

John pulled himself straight, seemingly gathering himself for what lied ahead as he paid the cabbie. He turned to Sherlock. "Now I get to see the damage you did to your room."

Sherlock raised a condescending eyebrow. "Wait, how can you so quickly assume that it's my room?"

"Because I know you wouldn't dare risk blowing up my room after that talk we had with my open surgery bag."

John took Sherlock's nervous dry swallow as an acknowledgement and proceeded to the front door, the hesitant steps of the detective treading softly behind him.

Mrs. Hudson answered the door with her usual cheery smile, but it was soon swallowed up by a very worried expression and nearly gaping mouth. "John! you poor thing, what happened to you? Why are you all bandaged dear?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mrs. Hudson's predictable cry of surprise and concern, all too familiar with John's dangerous antics and their landlady's reaction to the aftermath of those said antics.

"I'm alright Mrs. Hudson. No need to worry," John spoke reassuringly and gave the poor woman a task of fixing them some tea to get her mind of him, before making his way inside the flat with the reluctant detective not far behind. He soon scrunched up his nose.

The air freshener had apparently not been enough to cover up the smell of a chemical explosion. Sherlock thought regrettably.

"Sherlock, your door!"

"It was just a small mishap," The detective replied in a small voice.

"Small? The door is practically hanging off its hinges!" John retorted back fiercely.

"Nothing a few nails won't fix."

"Sherlock this was a very huge explosion! Did you get injured?"

"Just a few bumps and bruises," Sherlock replied, fakely dusting his skull with his fingers, on the mantlepiece.

John scoffed. "Right, a few bumps and bruises….."

Sherlock met his gaze. "Yes."

"Whatever." It wasn't that he believed Sherlock. John was well aware of the impact of chemical explosions in small areas. From the damage he's seen, the explosion should have at the very least given him a concussion.

"Alright, well onto the next step. We need to find your brother."

Sherlock gave John a distasteful look, but obediently pulled out his phone.

A text displayed on the screen.

 **I'm sorry, brother. I will no longer hold you back. MH**

"What is he up to now?"

John caught Sherlock's shaky tone and peeked down at the screen, reading the text.

"He really left. Jesus. Jesus. I can't go to one medical conference without everything going to hell!" John exhaled heavily and lowered himself down in his chair.

"Easy, John. Deep breaths," Sherlock cooed half-heartedly, obviously distracted with his own thoughts.

"You know your brother more than anyone." He faced Sherlock, fixing his eyes on smoky blue, speaking in a calmer tone. "Where did he go?"

The detective shoved his phone into his pocket, pensively. "I don't know."


	20. Chapter 20: A Tedious Problem

**A/N: Hello, everyone! Another semester is over and I'm on vacation till the middle of next month :D Thank you all so very much for the lovely and kind-hearted reviews, follows, and favorites :) I had planned to write a Christmas Eve special sooner, but time ran away from me. Whoopsie... Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 20: A Tedious Problem.

-SH-

John awoke somewhat unpleasantly.

His forehead was sticky with sweat and his heart was pounding in his chest, making each breath come out unsteadily.

But still, John couldn't deny that the feeling felt much more pleasant than waking up from a war nightmare. In order to escape them, John had to either die in that reality or be startled awake by Sherlock.

Thankfully, Sherlock was rarely quiet. Which was obnoxious any other times except these.

John heard a loud thump and immediately shot up in bed, grabbing his gun and rushing downstairs.

It was the middle of the night. A loud pounding sound at night was always more worrisome at that time because it meant that Sherlock had blown up something or the flat was being burglarized. It also sometimes concluded an attack, but from the sound of the thump, he doubted they were dealing with their type at the moment.

Aiming his gun straight at the back door, John quickly turned the handle and swung it open in one move. No one was there. There wasn't even a sign of split wood or evidence of any struggle whatsoever.

A bang…

The army doctor rushed down the steps and low and behold, there was Sherlock. A light dusting of snow on his dark curls and Belstaff coat, and the intrusive but pleasant scent of pine hung in the air. Sherlock's hands held the trunk of the 10-foot culprit, complete with plastic netting wrapped around the green parts, tying it all together.

"Oh, good, you're awake. Grab the front of it and help me carry it up," Sherlock spoke quickly, staring at John in an inpatient manner when he didn't move within the next few seconds.

"Why are you moving a Christmas tree in the middle of the night?" John asked, puzzled.

"Couldn't sleep."

Naturally.

Yawning into the back of his hand, John defeatedly slid his gun in the back of his knickers and walked down the last few steps, taking the front end of the tree and lifting it off the ground in sync with Sherlock's.

Together, they managed to pull the entire tree inside the door.

John caught Sherlock smirking at it as soon as they managed to shut the door, which was understandable, considering a few branches had snagged on the door frame for the longest time going in.

John's equaled smile disappears when he turns around.

The doctor had forgotten about the 17 step lug they would have to do in order to reach their flat. And with a tree that he wagered to be about 60 pounds, it wasn't going to be easy.

Resigned to his fate, John acceptingly started to walk backward up the stairs, careful to not trip on any of the branches following.

Sherlock let out a hiss of pain a few moments later when they were about to turn the corner into the flat.

John questioned him in his doctor voice. "What happened?"

"The trunk slipped."

Oh, he had a splinter. Thankfully he didn't sprain a finger, which the doctor first thought. "We'll get that out as soon as we reach the sitting room," John quickly replied. The less talking, the better.

"We? John, I lived alone for many years before you were my flatmate. I can handle removing it alone."

John resisted an eye roll and unflexed his arms briefly to rest them. "Whatever, let's just get this mastodon inside already."

Sherlock complied, and with the combination of their strengths and occasionally needed wits, they were able to lug the tree inside the flat and plopped it down near a barren corner of the sitting room.

"This seems like a good place, yeah?" John asked.

Sherlock replied from the kitchen. "It's a fine place."

It was then that John remembered the detective's dilemma. But he also remembered Sherlock's 'I can survive on my own' speech as well. Glancing to Sherlock readying a few tools on the counter, John decidedly sat down and pulled his laptop from its hiding place under the chair. A little pocket of the material that had split sometime during the move was wide enough to conceal his laptop from the bored detective.

As far as he knew, Sherlock wasn't the wiser, and he wanted it to stay that way.

In truth, he didn't want to stay up on his laptop at all. John really just wanted to go to bed, but the nightmare had been too realistic and frightening not to continue where it left off if he attempted it. Besides, the tree moving had woken him up. He couldn't sleep now.

Opening the lid, John began responding to comments on his blog, which for the middle of the night, was a surprising 300.

100 replies later, John heard the unmistakable sound of Sherlock plopping down into his seat.

John didn't exactly want to give him the satisfaction of eye contact, so he spoke while fixing them to the screen. "Get it out?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied simply, opening his laptop as well.

John was partially satisfied. There still remained the small matter of time. John was more experienced in removing unwanted things from the body than Sherlock, so he would have removed the splinter much faster. But if Sherlock desired to take two hours, then that was all his decision and John wasn't going to throw it back at him.

John proceeded to type up the last comment as a reply to a fan who was apparently up and bored enough to ask him a dozen questions as to why the army doctor was awake. Though, about a half hour later, the number ended up growing too far more than he expected to be perusing his blog at that hour of the night.

There was another oddity to this night, though. Sherlock.

Well, technically Sherlock was always odd. But he never let his hands be silenced quite like this before.

John had been observing the unusual quiet atmosphere for a while now. Glancing to the detective, John saw he had a hand on the trackpad, his other resting in the chair.

"How deep was it?"

This time it was Sherlock's turn not to make eye contact. "Not very."

Hmm, interesting.

"And what did you use?"

"Tweezers." And the tip of a small knife, but that didn't need to be said.

"You do know you took two hours, right?"

Sherlock gave him a bored look. "Yes, John, but I got it out. Now can we please drop the subject?"

"Not yet. There are more factors I need to take into consideration." John put his laptop in his seat and rose up. As he approached his flatmate, Sherlock tensed, his eyes following him.

John spoke pensively. "Sherlock, why are you surfing the web?"

"To learn. Why else would I surf the web?"

"What about, "this world produces few scrapes of new knowledge and whatever is recently birthed, has inevitably been recycled from regurgitated genius." John paused.

"That's the reason you prefer to acquire your own knowledge. And you even complain when you have to clean your mind palace from all the doldrums of useless knowledge you occasionally overhear. So I don't believe that you're stooping to the abyss yet," John finished strongly.

"The flesh is too tender for me to type right now, so I'm surfing the internet. Subject dropped."

"Alright, sod this." John firmly pulled Sherlock's hand out of the cushion and examined it. His face was quizzical a moment later.

"See, I told you, there's nothing-"

John pulled his other hand toward him a second later. "Oh, yeah. Because I'm just hallucinating the scratch marks with dried blood on them and the three-centimeter long splinter underneath." John sighed. "Sherlock, why did you try to hide this from me?"

Sherlock ripped his hand away and laid back, staring at the ceiling. "Because it's uncomfortable to be poked and prodded with a sharp metal object."

John spoke softly. "Sherlock, whatever your past experiences. I can promise that you won't be nearly as uncomfortable with me."

The detective shook his head. "No, it's too deep. Even you wouldn't be able to get it out without putting me under. I'll just have to let my body dissolve it over time. It should only take a few weeks."

"You don't trust me," the doctor replied, sounding a touch hurt.

"Don't be sentient," the detective bit back.

Sentient? I'm a bloody doctor! I help people. That's my job…" John continued in a lighter tone. "and my privilege... I took an oath."

Sherlock's silent, but then speaks. "You really care about this, don't you?"

John replied, somewhat calmer. "Apparently a great deal more than you."

A huff cleared the silence.

"Alright."

"Alright, what?"

"You can do it."

John didn't say another word andwalked into the kitchen, bringing the necessary tools and setting them on the coffee table that he moved over to the sofa.

John offered his hand to Sherlock who took it and then followed him to the sofa where they sat down. The doctor thought he saw a flash of fear when his flatmate surveyed the table, his smoaky-grey eyes always calculating. But soon a mask of indifference replaced it. Sherlock would always put one on when he didn't particularly like a coming experience.

The army doctor reassured him. "Don't worry, performing surgeries in the environment of a battleground without anesthetic has made me an expert at doing this. You should hardly feel it."

He saw Sherlock relax a little.

He continued speaking, narrating his every move for some reason. "Now generally, I would have used the nail clippers to trim a little excess skin to make the process faster, but since you've hacked up a lot of that layer and then some, I'm going to be using this sterilized needle." John held it up for him to see.

Sherlock gave him a sarcastic look at the reference. But he gave John his hand and laid his head against the back cushion.

First, John prepped and examined the area for a clear and unmangled place to start. He hadn't been exaggerating the level of damage and it was no surprise his flatmate had tried such tactics.

The splinter was buried too deep to use anything but a needle now.

Sherlock winced as John gently applied the alcohol. After sterilizing the area and waiting a sufficient amount of time for the skin to dry, John began lightly scraping the first layer of skin directly over the lodged sliver of wood.

"Thank you, John."

 _Well, that was unexpected._ John would have looked over his shoulder expecting a bubbly pathologist walking towards them carrying a murder file if the detective hadn't addressed him and if it wasn't the middle of the night.

John replied. "Yes, well someone has to step in and save you from your own stupidity from time to time. Since we're flatmates I figured that the poor sod might as well be me." John smiled lightly as did Sherlock.

Almost through to another layer of skin, John was reflecting on the night's events. "Where did you get a tree at this time of the night?" he didn't believe he cut it down himself.

Sherlock replied without turning his gaze from the ceiling. "Where else. A Christmas tree sale."

John creased his brow. "But there was no one there to accept your purchase, how did you-

"I grabbed a tree and set the money in their collection box.- Then I came here."

 _Of course._

* * *

 **A/N: While Sherlock's splinter wasn't the required depth to need last resort measures, I did find out something pretty neat when it comes to removing deeper ones. Epsom salts were proven to remove a deep thorn from a guy's hand, witnessed by his wife, in 3 days. She says it's worked on splinters and thorns alike, painlessly.** **Now don't get me wrong. While this may be the pain-free method, it's also a very slow method. But if you're into the waiting, then I say go for it. For the rest of you, a clear head and sterilized needle and tweezers are all that are required most of the time.**

 **I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter and if any of you have some splinter stories of your own you don't mind sharing, I'd love to hear them :D The next chapter will be posted, Christmas Day!**


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